The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.
– Jack London
Time, like small pebbles between our fingers, so easy to slip, slip, through our grasp. Even if we clamp down, there’s no stopping the pebbles, the zippier they become.
Sometimes the opposite is best, so we flatten our hands, and the pebbles puddle in our palms, unsecured and still.
Every time we tear at time’s waistcoat, frantic to snatch the pocket watch that swings on a chain, taunting us with possibility, the pebbles’ velocity accelerates.
What shall we do?
Maybe quiet will decelerate the pebbles’ speed. Maybe a flat, out-stretched hand creates a whims chance at trust. Maybe the pebbles could settle and find their place in the lines of our skin—avail time to us.
Rushing to and fro, frantically cataloging and multitasking, we’re unaware of how many pebbles tumble, slip, slip, through our fingers. Where has all the time gone? Why didn’t we do this or that when we could?
Maybe if we open our palms, we’ll find time sitting—waiting.
“About time you stopped,” time says. “There are things to see and feelings to feel and laughter to be had. You’d miss it if you’d kept on the way you were.”
Why have we collected multi-colored debris and festering so-need-to-be-discarded habits? Time slips, slips through our fingers.
Was the hope that we’d be quick enough to catch the important moments, the ones we want to recall years from now, heart-felt and fuzzy with love hairs?
How often did we miss those supposed best moments?
Every moment is the best moment. None of them worth missing.
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