Some of them have been gentle. Considerate and generous. Almost apologetic. They quoted the number. A measure.
Time, you see is the most fascinating dimension of all, if you can call it that, dimension i.e. I often try to visualise time. Is it passing us by or do we pass it by? Does time happen only because we have this incessant need to count and measure and compare? It does. What did the poet mean when he said, “Time stood still?”
That, for that moment, we didn’t count, measure and compare. That is all there is to it. Nothing scientifically complicated.
Time doesn’t pass us by, we just do things. We just live our lives.
What if time is The Matrix? What if time is a man-made concept, the classic conspiracy theory, the mother-of-all conspiracy theories? (Did I just crack the code, here?) All our behaviour is dictated by time. We sleep at a particular time, wake at one. We behave a way when we are children, young, and different when we are old. We start “behaving our age.” We get tense if we haven’t made money by a particular age, we choose to feel sad, if we aren’t married by certain time. We dread the three years before retirement. We ask for space (we really ask, only for time). We put dates to things. Give time.
As if it was something we possessed.
We plan and fret as if we know how much time we had to live. We almost bring death to ourselves, by the belief that we are getting old and we don’t have time. We crunch the dimension, bring it closer; a death-wish.
As if it was a depleting cash balance.
I live in my own age of reflection where all’s well; still. Lucky me, I believe in it and live by it. I am happy to be the age that I believe I am. It’s difficult, however, to explain your insanity to those that believe in the convention.
All’s well, still!