time only started to pass
when we awoke one day
and began to keep track of it.
before us, there was no time;
time stood still.
it was patient and unmoving,
steadfast and content.
with no clocks, time was irrelevant.
with no appointments to keep, time mattered not.
everything just… was,
and all things were perfectly fine.
with no self-aware man,
time’s measurement was benign;
its passage, empty and vain.
all things were infinite and eternal
(as they still remain).
time is only our perception
of this very moment;
it’s our best-guessed description
of how we experience
the continual movement of life itself.
time is our empty attempt
to somehow control the infinite.
to and fro,
from birth to death,
from spring to winter,
from light to dark,
from being to nothingness;
all things are forever ongoing.
each one feeds into the next.
a tree doesn’t die when it loses its leaves,
nor does the ocean dry
when its waves crash and disappear.
we are as much a piece of time,
as the blood that flows through our veins.
we are an ever-blossoming flower,
opening up to a forever-burning sun.
now is our eternal time.