Of Time, and Other Musings

Time is a fascinating subject to catch hold of...on rainy days, brooding about, it is a balm--to the lovelorn, the brave, the bored, the foolish, the splendidly happy, the mournfully lonesome--all things pale before this consideration.

We profess to know so much about it: 'Ten twenty-five,' said I promptly in response to a bewildered passerby this morning.
'A.M.--that's in the morning, is it?'
'...yes.'

For it had not occurred to me, you see, that it could be otherwise than ten twenty-five AM. And yet, this bewildered soul was quite right: there is not a topic on this earth, or outside of it, about which we know less.

For example, does it run in circles? Is it, then, the ever-present whirlpool? A matrix, perhaps? Or a drudging line, stretching out into oblivion, never to return whence we have come? Can past and present exist at once? And how would one know? It is the eternal mystery, of all the mysteries in this thing we call life.

I am aware that I may be delving into morose monstrosities of brooding here, but never fear: it does wrap round to return to publishing in the end.

For if time is not an arrow, but a sphere, then all the ideas, all the experiences we have been carrying about within ourselves for years (and doubtless wish to banish many from the groove of our memories) are as fresh and new as they were when they sprung into being. Thus, though we grow and learn beyond our stories' capacity, betimes, we can never leave the feelings that once we owned. Every instance of great feeling seems, to me, an hour-mark, every moment of passion or sorrow or envy or joy a tick-mark, a sundial-slash in the fluid sand of one's life. Tho' the tide of years may come up and seem to wash the mark away, it remains. It is ever being made, and disappearing, at once.

It may not be true, but what a good brooding introductory theme it makes.


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