Time is a tricky thing. Always borrowed. Never guaranteed. It wears disclaimers like: Handle with Caution and No Refunds. It’s quite the weasel.
I’ve made good use of and squandered, both. I enjoy how it lends to healing but resent how it can be stolen so easily. I admire how things grow inside of it, yet despise how things can be torn down within a moment of it, as well. I lament that there is no rewind, pause, or fast-forward. It marches at a steady pace—its cadence is unshakable.
Every moment introducing something new as the previous moment expires. It’s a constant ebbing of past, present, and future—never disrupted. We wish it longer, shorter, fuller, more simple. We wrestle, are dragged under, run ahead. We attempt to capture or make up, but it’s like water through cupped fingers.
So we simply remember, best we can. And try to stay in the only thing honestly given which is this moment alone.