Time
A hundred million stories // And a hundred million songs // Nobody’s listening to me // Nobody’s listening
- Anyone, Demi Lovato
There is a place, a still space – a space which is
held together by memory alone. Its soul moves through shattered glass and torn curtains
to gently stir long dead letters, abandoned. I have often wondered while sitting
amidst pieces of a window, on a deck that groans in pain – what this bruised house
must feel, think and wonder…
Time.
Such a fickle thing, Time is. It has no master, no consciousness – no moral compass. It does not start; it does not pause nor end - it just is. Mind you, I have had plenty of time to envisage the innumerable aspects of its existence and you would think with all this stillness to contemplate Time - one would have at least half a clue, or a glimmer of an answer…. something…..to explain why.
And yet, I fall short.
But I do know this: Time slips and weaves and wends its way through my growing cracks, my countless tatters, weakening my hold on this world. With unforgiving fingers Time widens the fissures and wounds in my foundation with reckless abandon. My lacerations, bruises, countless cuts – my pain – means nothing as Time tickles its way though me.
This, I know.
I never thought I would be draped in a cloak of silence – deadening the sound of laughter in my rooms. Halting memory. I never thought bird song, or the yip of a coyote, or the minutia of plants growing through
concrete, would be the only sound to keep me company. I never thought my only companion would be Time.
I once held joy and warmth within my walls and kept those two snug against fierce winter storms and sheltered from the chaos of everyday humanity. Memories dance – yet mine are slowly fading, blown out, washed out by Time. Joy and warmth used to be peppered in laughter sometimes tinged with anger and once… in a while…. sprinkled in tears. Yet – happiness reined. My rooms and halls were brimming to the point of overflowing. And it was magic.
I wonder what moved them to leave me.
I wonder what those who come to point, to exclaim, to use me as a sideshow – think? Do they wonder who I am? Do they wonder at the pain of broken glass and smashed walls? Do they wonder at the memories slowly spinning through the air? Or am I just a mere curiosity, a speck at the edge of their consciousness – a backdrop for an afternoon tryst.
I suppose Time may yet tell me.
So.
I will wrap my tatters around me, and I will wait. I have Time.
