We stand in a segment of time that transgresses all other moments.
The past is dead and always was. We are alive and think we aren’t.
Nostalgia is chain-linked bondage to thoughts remembered.
We hope to regain our peace in worlds abandoned, to be safe and secure in tepid stillness.
And the sun is setting for the only time to our left, its fire shocking out new radiant beings of color and angular shade.
Life is fire, burning in unpredictable glory to a time unforseen.
To smother is to transgress our spacetime and sink into dark matter, a most unpleasant warmth and wetness that we should have only known once in the beginning.
Time is rain and I am there, smoking and steaming. Breath is fire, blood is flowing.
To step over a time is to freeze and die. A curved horizon gains a speed forgotten and unentangled from the past. Time is split, a wave receding as we push forward.
The earth and time are a mysterious swirl of energy; at points it crystallizes and dazzles the mind in crashing tsunamis of glory. All currents layer their dimensions around and through vision and sometimes shake out a clarity hitherto unknown both before and after.
The End is coming and always was in front of us, both when I wrote this and when you now peer through words to see a distant sun-dripped meadow.
Before, we were so deeply bedded in time that we awoke only at the installation of shame and civilization. We stepped out into sterilized halls of certainty with meals prepared by others and felt creaking structures of minds unbent. We were vaccinated against mystery and pain and given a mask without knowing why.
We stooped and fell and rose slightly less unchangeable. We kindled fear in the minds of our parents and stoked the flames of an anxious future yet unborn.
Grace saved us and saw us and swept us along, overriding the kill switch of our certain death. And it rained again and the sun rose and set along the equator, prescribed as our antidote to sterile repetition.
A thousand winds began to blow, sweeping and moving across the world. The grand stories and visions of our time shuddered and began melting, hit by the future change of a shifting lens. They flickered and lost depth, soon only those entranced by stale shadows and blind habit kept to these paths. A series of mirages hazed in and out; we grabbed and sought each one with ever decreasing confidence.
Wandering backwards and wondering inwards, we broke off our casts of past certainty and found raw pink flesh. Some itched and tore at the pain, while others prepared for war. And we all kept staring past the sun to the shadows in front of us.
Laughs as easy as breath gushed forth from battles fought and won, from growth untold, while those sterilized and protected hacked out a smile to pin to the top of their persona.
And the sun fell upon its horizon and became itself in the whispers of last shadows. Time breathed out and all was still but for the crackling of those enflamed.