Time

Time is a delusion. A mirage in a sea of nothing, where lives spark brilliantly and fade silently like stars from unexisting galaxies. It’s the feather that falls from the Dove, drifting through the air while the wind holds its hand, guiding it to where it’s destined to go.

It’s a train that goes one way, with infinite wagons dashing through the landscape of forgotten monsters that pass with blurry silhouettes as the rails screech.

A sailboat that never loses its way, like the child that always knows its way home. It’s the tyrant that dictates over us. All the while, setting us free from ourselves.

Blurry faced, yet so familiar is time. It caresses our skin with the delicate feel of a loving mother, while slapping us ruthlessly like a drunk father, yet not less lovingly. Heartless its ways, yet always guidant is time, keeping us on track.

Time can be our friend or our worst enemy. Sometimes it's abundant, deceiving us into believing its momentary facade, which lures us into a maze where we pleasantly get lost. With eons between each every step.

Time will never be ours to have, but it will always be there for our use. We can’t put a tag on it, while we still have plenty of it under our name.

The mysteries of time are as infinite as itself. However, it feels so warm and familiar that the very thought of its existence plunges us in a pond of expectation.

If I could hold time and walk its path, I’d make sure to soak in its beauty. With mindless devotion sit I, on that empty wagon train, watching those empty figures flash before my eyes.

However, time is in our minds. An omnipotent figure, always present yet never seen. After all that has been said, my mind still fumes at the infinite possibilities by which it dances. For this, the question “What is time?”, will never be answered.

We ask a question on time, the answer to which will never arrive despite how long it’s pondered. Isn’t it ironic?

After all that, I still believe we can choose. Time is a blanket. A blanket that covers everything known and unknown. It watches over us, allowing us to sew our tiny trace on its endless sea of white foldings. A trace that shall never fade, just as its unwithering canvas. A trace that will remain.

Even if all forget.

Even if life’s train leaves the station.

Even when generations past are a murmur in a vast sea.

Even when existence’s turn is way overdue.

Time will always remain, with our sewings decorating its linen cloth; beautiful as it’ll ever be.

-Gonzalo Armas