it is just that.
It has no meaning whatsoever.
It can be a burden and at the same time, a solace; like a balm to a burn.
Time has a way of dragging out, sneaking up and streaking past.
It is unpredictable that way.
It has no sense of self nor does it care about anything that may come into its path.
It is quite the ego it sports and for whatever reason, I think it enjoys that egotistical status that it has.
It can do what it wants when it wants and however it wants. That is the beauty and disillusionment of time. It is there and then it is gone and once it’s gone, it never, ever comes back.
No second guessing, no doubts, no regrets.
Time is like a mist on a summer morning that burns away under the sun. Once it is gone, it isn’t even a memory.
It is simply gone.
Try to hang on to it if you must, but know that doing so will be like grasping at the wind. Your hands will be empty even though, for a moment, they felt full.
Time is futile, is is fickle, it is precious …
but it is elusive and thrives in being so.
A single drop of rain often goes unnoticed, and yet it’s beauty is profound. Time. A thing of beauty.