Can I feel fulfilled immersing myself into silence and vacant clouds? Like a lone traveler on an empty freeway entering a dense fog, only to exit the other side onto an unchanged landscape. Time has weight and urgency only when we allow it to. We give it the power to stack like bricks onto our chest. We were meant to float and count the berries gathered, the wolves in the pack – but the days, hours, minutes, years, those are meant to float away like dumb insects. “When will you be ready?” is a question I ask myself constantly, as the hand of time drags me across rough pavement. The sky is overcast with a grayish blue hue, the wind wisps delicately against my bare torso, then more aggressively as I hear dry leaves scrape against paved earth, the birds are singing a sparse tune, a conversation I wish I was a part of, the sound of traffic droning on in the background creating a singular low hum I rarely notice, and I’m realizing it’s all the same song, no breaks, no flipping the record, changing the tape – we are both audience and performer. I can’t change who I am, how I feel the wind, how I am but a note in the grand symphony. Maybe “on-time” is just a way to fulfill the human desire to be on something. We are both eternal and transient, and can only really dance to the song of now.
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