Counting Grains Of Sand

  I am counting the hours as they slide like silk over my skin.  I am feeling every single second, goosebumps prickling to the creepy-crawl of Time’s skittering insect pace.  Stop.  Start.  Start.  Stop.  Zig-zag and hurly-burly.  Dash pell-mell and spin in circles.  Go nowhere fast.  Hurry up and stand still.  Climb that anthill to the very tippy-top and roll each individual grain of sand down by hand.  I am pulling down the pyramids and repiling them in another location, in another time.  Tomorrow.  When will it be tomorrow?  I have asked this question an infinite number of times in an infinite number of ways in an infinite variety of moods.  I have not received an answer.  It was rhetorical, anyway.  It will be here soon.  It is already here.  It passed me by.  It is yesterday.  Here, now, is all I can take in, interact with, manipulate.  Here, now, is all that exists.  Time, if it is a river, flows through us, and we bend it, shape its path.  Our society is a slave to time, but time is our dog, on our leash.  We are its creator, and therefore its master.  We can speed it up or slow it down with an act of will.  I know this.  I have felt time speed up and slow down around me over these past days like a current in a river where the rocks keep shifting.  The shifting rocks are my attention, my focus.  Where am I looking?  How am I looking there?  This changes the flow.  My attention, my focus, my eyes drop boulders wherever I point them, shed tears of dust and silt and mud, form sandbars that alter the drift and spin of time.  Tides.  Flotsam and jetsam.  Tidal pools of time and space, full of darting moments, skittering crab nebulae, spinning vortices stuck in the slimy algae of backwater time.  I dangle my toes in the water, waiting for the tide.  The moon is nearly empty, but still it tugs.  Massive body, pull!  Push and pull this endless ocean!  Soon enough, the tide will shift.  Time will rise again and cover this empty beach, and I will drift away on the current, carried into tomorrow.  All that will remain here now will be stacked and scattered chronol driftwood, weathered and misshapen remnants of today’s moments.  Most are left to languish and rot.  Some are revisited, whittled and reshaped, kept as priceless treasures, polished brighter every time they are taken out and shared.  But, in the end, all will erode and float away…

Forgotten in the haze of layered yesterdays.

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Published in: on August 16, 2009 at 9:34 pm  Leave a Comment  
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