“There are really four dimensions, three which we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time.”
― H.G. Wells, The Time Machine
Time is a peculiar notion.
It is tumultuous and taunting. It mocks us as we frantically attempt to define it, restrain it. All the while it continues, relentless and unyielding in its suffocating pursuit. Hungrily consuming the air from our lungs and darkening our thoughts.
The passage of time is truly daunting and deplorable. Its icy, unsympathetic, bony hands wound forcefully around my neck. Its spindly fingers creeping down my throat, choking me while it laughs uproariously in my face, its rancid breath blistering the skin on my cheeks.
Where did the years go?
What have they given us?
Often it appears little more than the lingering stench of remorse, defeat, anguish and utter despair.
Yet here we are. Human beings barreling towards an indiscernible and imaginary finish line. What do we hope to achieve? What is the purpose of all our running? What are we even running towards? Isn’t it time to take a step back? To reflect? To take a deep breath and observe the world around us?
Take it all in.
Breathe.
Allow ourselves to become submerged in the here and now.
Just breathe in.
Breathe out.
How facile it is to be sucked into and suffocated by the banality of our existences. Going through the motions, pages blowing off the proverbial calendar without us so much as batting an eye. The years go on and we grow weary.
And so we must force ourselves to exhale. For so often it seems like we are constantly holding our breath.
- M xx
