A Sign of Time

Oh, Time, strange thing you are, teasing us with urgency in the illusion of scarcity.  We can never know your true nature with all this fear of losing you.

Do you ever truly disappear or is it merely that our attachment to the years painted on our gadgets leads to no longer seeing the numbers or hands underneath?

Maybe no one was ever keeping track of the real you.  And maybe your hands cannot be seen by anyone with eyes, because seeing is believing, and believing is a habit that shapes our sight.

And we learned too often and for far too long to keep our song short enough for everyone to be able to sing along;  How to exist in a manageable shape and size. 

How to stay on the ground and not take up too much space so everyone can have a place to call home, as long as we can make each other small enough to name.

And you never did fit in tiny spaces, try as we do to make you small enough to contain.  Because every­one needs more Time, because you’re always running away, because nothing and no one wants to be caged.

I don’t blame Time for shaking its head at the meager threads we assign to things we want to understand, as if we can bind them to one place long enough to comprehend. 

As if stasis is safest to a God with many faces.  As if we can define the Divine.

Time is a rebel after all, without an ounce of patience for measurements and linear perceptions. 

Time wants to break out of the ticking box and break apart the glass cases and party like it’s the end of the world because it is.

And Time knows better than any of us how endings are beginnings and everything in between all at once. 

And there were never any lines to divide what is yours and what is mine because we are all in this together, in every state of mind.

And letting go is a sign of faith. So I’m ready to abandon my watch and open my arms. 

Because everyone is tired of playing small and we all dream of flying sometimes.  That’s why Time figured out how to reveal to us those dreams are real. 

And that’s why Time does, indeed, fly, as a sign to you and me, that we were always made to soar.

©2022, Sheya Forest

Author’s Note:
I chose to post this to break up some of the bleak content I’ve written lately, because I know most of us need a little hope to get by. I don’t have much, but a mood strikes now and then that I can play with. This one is for those who are ready to be authentic in their lives.

Art: Time is Flying by Mihaela Pater

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