Finest Hours


I see now why people compare sand with time. I see where the futility of trying to grasp them, the inevitability of  their passing, and the crazy idea of trying to count them haunts each of us with so much pure recognition. We already know these to be true, and yet, we try to make sense of the whys. Where does sand go, where does time? Why should we know? Why do they have to go?

It’s crazy how things, which feel like they were done yesterday, were actually done a week ago, a month, a year, or even a decade ago. Do you also feel the gravity of the idea of their loss? Do you feel the burden of the imaginary weight of lost time mocking you? Do you also catch your breath and pant at the sense of trying to catch up with everything moving around you? Does it also feels as though the Earth has suddenly shifted to spin a bit faster, but only for you?

And yet, the sands, the hands, of time, their movement, they lull me. I can bury myself in the coarse memories of lost time. I can try to enjoy time passing and to be fine as the fleeting grains of sand.


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