there's tiny pieces of paper, blowing in the wind around me, rushing at me, then arcing away in eddies, whooshing upwards on updrafts, swirling unpredictably in the vortices, the turbulence in the flow of time that our presence creates.
i reach to grab at the scraps, to grasp specific ones, or as many as possible, and the wind curls around inside my palm, carrying the slips across the landscape of my grasp, and safely free.
i catch glimpses through the gaps between my fingers, and on one, i see her, on another, me, so many other versions, iterations, of me, better, worse, but maybe only the better ones survive in storm, right?
time plays with us. this and that happen, two provident events, connected. but then time is added in, and two are now too far apart, though so close in every other way. love exists, and it's real, saturating it all, but time has shuffled the cards. i can see it across the room, but i can't get to it.
but it's gone both ways. i've been careless with time, arrogant. expected it to wait for me, hold up the smooth running of the universe so i could find courage, ask permission, decide, do. but cowardice was never overcome, permission was never asked nor granted, decisions were not made, and life didn't get done.
the debit column is just the past, the lump of time spent. time is just this thing, just another vector of force exerted on an object. but i can't fight it. i know it's coming, but i can't see it coming. and it keeps moving, swirling around me, carrying scraps of rice paper inked with events and catastrophies, comedies and tragedies, hopes realized and dashed, loneliness and love, all resistant to my grasp, the future slipping through my fingers and into the past.
the wind is quiet.
there - there she is.
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