If time is a river, my song is a flood.
Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!
Life marches forward, slowly, quickly, at a steady gait either way. Sometimes the world moves so slowly that you can't help but feel like you're waiting on something. Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting in the wrong spot, like something huge is happening and I'm missing it. The feeling that you are stuck, like tar, to the ground, unable to move. Please, please, throw me in the briar patch -- at least then I'll feel something.
Then life moves quickly. What should have been days passes in an hour, and you feel a sense of longing. I miss those days that should have been but passed so quickly I never saw them go. I reach out to them, but they are gone. Suddenly I'm 10 years old, playing the mud, researching wave patterns and barrier islands, even if I didn't know their names. Dropping ice on the sidewalk to see how fast it melts. Running down steps too fast and tumbling in the yard. Things I long for, reach out for, but have missed.
Then there are days that feel like days, and instead of being good, it feels stretched, like you could measure every single moment, and in that, find that very little of life is exciting. It's like a patchwork quilt of hours and minutes, and seconds, combined with moments, and appointments, meetings, wasted breath, and too little-too lates.
I have often called time a march, but I don't believe it is so. Time is a song, repeating it's chorus, adding new phrases as moments move forward and fall back. What was once will be again, even if it's only in the mind. We think so linearly that we imagine the march, listen to the stamping, but we miss the beat, the melody, the low hum of the hymns and spirituals, the tooting of jazz horns, the clapping and tapping and razzamatazzing of ska. Life is a song, sometimes it's sad, sometimes it's allegro. Life is a song, and it makes me cry when the violin plays. Life is a song and the piano wires touch my heart strings too. Life is a song, and too often I forget to sing.
Life marches forward, slowly, quickly, at a steady gait either way. Sometimes the world moves so slowly that you can't help but feel like you're waiting on something. Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting in the wrong spot, like something huge is happening and I'm missing it. The feeling that you are stuck, like tar, to the ground, unable to move. Please, please, throw me in the briar patch -- at least then I'll feel something.
Then life moves quickly. What should have been days passes in an hour, and you feel a sense of longing. I miss those days that should have been but passed so quickly I never saw them go. I reach out to them, but they are gone. Suddenly I'm 10 years old, playing the mud, researching wave patterns and barrier islands, even if I didn't know their names. Dropping ice on the sidewalk to see how fast it melts. Running down steps too fast and tumbling in the yard. Things I long for, reach out for, but have missed.
Then there are days that feel like days, and instead of being good, it feels stretched, like you could measure every single moment, and in that, find that very little of life is exciting. It's like a patchwork quilt of hours and minutes, and seconds, combined with moments, and appointments, meetings, wasted breath, and too little-too lates.
I have often called time a march, but I don't believe it is so. Time is a song, repeating it's chorus, adding new phrases as moments move forward and fall back. What was once will be again, even if it's only in the mind. We think so linearly that we imagine the march, listen to the stamping, but we miss the beat, the melody, the low hum of the hymns and spirituals, the tooting of jazz horns, the clapping and tapping and razzamatazzing of ska. Life is a song, sometimes it's sad, sometimes it's allegro. Life is a song, and it makes me cry when the violin plays. Life is a song and the piano wires touch my heart strings too. Life is a song, and too often I forget to sing.