9/4/07
Twenty years ago tonight my daughter was born. Two decades...yesterday, and yet a lifetime.
Six years ago this evening we stood on the deck of a schooner, watching porpoises in our wake as we coasted into harborage. Or was it two lifetimes ago?
Six years ago next Tuesday, time stopped for some 3000 souls, and a lifetime became the interval between one second and the next. Or the interval in which a choice was made, a choice made in ignorance that saved or damned.
Time proves relativity; time elapsed depends upon the observer, time experienced depends upon the one experiencing it.
Time is maya, Illusion. Time compresses and extends as we try to seize it. Time eludes all measurement. We think we can nip out a moment and tuck it away as some private treasure, but all we grasp is dust and withered leaves. We blink and feel as though an eon has passed, but against the turn of the cosmos our lives are scarcely a picosecond’s ruffling in the stream.
Culled from a conversation in “Return of the King:”
It is ever so with the things that Men begin; there is a frost in Spring, or a blight in Summer, and they fail of their promise. Yet rarely do they fail of their seed; and that will lie in the dust and rot, to spring forth anew in times and places unlooked for. The deeds of Men will outlast us…and yet come to naught in the end but might-have-beens.
What of my promise, my deeds, my beginnings, my seeds? What of my might-have-beens?
Six years ago this evening we stood on the deck of a schooner, watching porpoises in our wake as we coasted into harborage. Or was it two lifetimes ago?
Six years ago next Tuesday, time stopped for some 3000 souls, and a lifetime became the interval between one second and the next. Or the interval in which a choice was made, a choice made in ignorance that saved or damned.
Time proves relativity; time elapsed depends upon the observer, time experienced depends upon the one experiencing it.
Time is maya, Illusion. Time compresses and extends as we try to seize it. Time eludes all measurement. We think we can nip out a moment and tuck it away as some private treasure, but all we grasp is dust and withered leaves. We blink and feel as though an eon has passed, but against the turn of the cosmos our lives are scarcely a picosecond’s ruffling in the stream.
Culled from a conversation in “Return of the King:”
It is ever so with the things that Men begin; there is a frost in Spring, or a blight in Summer, and they fail of their promise. Yet rarely do they fail of their seed; and that will lie in the dust and rot, to spring forth anew in times and places unlooked for. The deeds of Men will outlast us…and yet come to naught in the end but might-have-beens.
What of my promise, my deeds, my beginnings, my seeds? What of my might-have-beens?