“Time is a dressmaker specializing in alterations.”
The idea of time is it has no conception on what makes sense to us. It’s ruthlessly uncanny. It marches on when we wish it stilled; it slows when we’d have it fastened.
Not the least of which time shocks us often by wafting in the changing guard, helpless we are to note its theme a great part of it.
Time is hence preposterously pompous—entirely righteous—though rudely so.
And we kick against him most our lives, Father Time.
And yet, we can but marvel at him.
But to marvel would mean us ‘getting over’ time’s pomposity. Sharpening our senses of rationalisation, we find that time is not the villain after all; it is our deft sense of conceitedness—for which there is positively no end!
Time and change are two inevitable portents, shaving but a mirage from our lithe psyches of flowery fantasy.
They remind us we’re not in control.
They leave their sweeping mark over our emotional borders and take us on all sorts of creepy journeys.
Time: let us respect it to the point of awe, not resenting what it brings.
© 2010 S. J. Wickham.