The passing of everything, and at such speeds, leaves its mark;
sometimes resembling a bruise such as caused by the acidic, wintery hand of agression,
other times like the imperceptable yet absolute microfractures to the beak of
a bird as it pecks at the warm, unflinching earth.
It takes time to appreciate anything.
Yet nothing slows down long enough to be appreciated properly.
To be savoured, fully loved, and understood.
The fattest, bloodiest chunks are thrashingly removed,
and no consideration is made for whether or not they were the best cuts.
There was no time to tell.
Rip chunks out of nations, islands, oceans and hands. Tear and devour, and then move on to the next one, quickly. We cannot waste time, yet time is wasting us,
delivering us blindly into nothing more than a death sentence.
And, currently, there is nothing but time ahead.
Sometimes, an abundance of it is mistaken for freedom; it looks the same,
and depending on the light, provides the same set of traps.
Lay back, let the moments wash over you, unjudgemental of your decision, even though they are finite.
Don't fill these fractions, unrepeatable cells of existence, with anything because
if you're not getting rewarded, why should you lift a finger?
Racing past; they all come from no where and disappear there again.
There? Then where is here, when they are at this time?
The moments sing, if you let them.
They pour the colors and song over everything, these vessels for every chapter of perceptability.
But that's just one way of looking at moments.
Sometimes every one is a life sentence, other times they are shocks of euphoria.
But if the passing of all is nothing but a slow movement that we all undertake,
then sitting back and making nothing of moments cannot actually happen.
It is impossible to make nothing of what just is - you cannot extrapolate the passing of all.
You can only move to the same pattern,
weaving, rupturing and experiencing to the sound of your own countdown.