Time Stops for Nobody

As a professional time waster, I can safely say that it is a finite resource. Others may spend their time working and playing and partying and drinking and growing up, but me, I have spent my time on nothing -- perhaps with the erroneous supposition that I could save it by not spending it? But neigh, time's footfalls never cease; and where others find things to distract them from that infernal march, I press my ear to the ground and listen to each maddening step. It is my great fascination, that encroaching mortality which consumes like a flood; even as the remnants of those departed rise and swell like the waves, there are those who remain afloat, looking down into the abyss that will one day be their home.

Time is like a magnificent puppeteer; each morning he creates a new repertoire of marionettes, and every evening he throws them on the woodpile. For that brief day, the puppets do all that they can to affirm their worth; each story they enact is unique and will never be repeated.

Or, time is like an eternal samurai; he unsheathes each blade, wears it down to nothing, and sheathes it once more for good. Each blade can only be remembered by the marks they made in the brief time they are unsheathed; and only those who wear their marks may remember them.

It is like the day between the nights; so long do we spend asleep, and only for an instant are we awake, between sleeps. A night sandwich.

More precious to me than anything in the world is the twilight time, the time that visits me in the wee hours of the morning when all is still. Sweet unconsciousness clings like a wet leaf, and time is so intimate and slow in its heaves, whispering incoherently. Time may slow in this way, just to savor the brink, but it truly stops for nobody.

And I think to myself, it's a good thing I'm nobody...