Dear Reader,
Read dearly, please, as I am sure you are already doing.
Very good.
Now, draw nearer if you dare.
It is time.
Time is now, and now is (because I have chosen it to be) a time for my words to emit.
Out, sword!
Left to right, down the page and we turn.
Cover to cover, chapters and pages fly.
Yet, sometimes they don’t, and we shut the book and reach for another cover to unfold.
A bookmark.
We steep a bag of tea in the boiled water as we ourselves steep in the frozen puddle of a current winter, made from drops of yesterday’s fall, as we admire the reflections of a coming spring.
The whistle.
The mug.
The steep in which we were inclined to reside for a time.
The curtain did arise, and we blew. We sipped.
“Ahhhhhhhh.”
Time is now, and we continue...
Through descriptions, dialogue and developments of personality.
We realize a character’s mere ability to reach across a medium and impress itself upon our human mind demands only one thing: our time.
Time is ours, is it not?
We don’t know.
We do know something; a place, a feeling, a person.
A place is but a time. Our place.
A feeling; a prolonged moment. Your feeling, and mine as well.
A person, a relation amidst the eternally blown ship of circumstance.
“Ahhhhhh?”
You are seized, and I drag you into the graveyard of my thoughts, and here lies my stance: Time is the ultimate paradox; an ever pushing pull of involuntary progression that gives and takes each and every life it embraces.
And yet, we ourselves are the furthering of the paradox.
Bestowed by time with a mandatory gift, we can constantly capture our captor with the present of our stories.
The dragging ceases, and you are free to go.
Why the long stare?
Are you so inclined to stupidly stoop while you steep in a bitter air with only the mug of your face, yet no handle on your life’s current state of mind in time for which I have led you quizzically?
Ah, you wish to proceed.
We drag on...
With ringing words, moving pictures and stirring sounds, we can distill even our most mundane moments and bottle them into stories of timeless memories, of things past and yet to come, to pass them through each sense of our being.
To dress it plainly; We can toss a fresh salad with tomorrow’s tomatoes, today’s basil and last month’s mozzarella.
A story: time restored for us to witness a shadow of un-living relatives, unreachable regions and unborn relations, upon the unknowable residence of the imaginary and ever approaching future.
But not every bottle ages well.
Some carry only the sweetness, others the bitterness. Some open with a bang, only to fizzle into something flat. Some only carry poison.
But alas, some age into something beyond time itself.
Our life’s incline, steeped in time.
Water into wine.
Now is the time for the bottling, and only time can forge these words back into a sword.
If now is somehow won, something pure will erupt backward into a time and emit something true.
Ah. Perhaps I am losing you.
Not a bother, for that was our last turn together.
For now, let us depart.
I will leave you with this knife:
Forwards, life is only an empty drawer.
You must look back to find any reward.
