I’m in a wide deep river that flows onwards to the sea. The wind gusts at my back in spite of the lee. The bleak banks are far away, the murky waters are swift, my feet don’t reach the river’s bed, I’m floating lonely and adrift. Once every so often I bump against a big rock that my hands will firmly clasp to stop the tick and the tock — but the rock is slick with the slime of passing time and I slip on and on to the sunset light sublime. Look: All around are scattered people failing too to stem the flow as the tireless river hurries on towards the sunset’s vesper glow. Then I start to grasp that to fight it is to fail and I must be one with the river, not see it as my jail. And now, and now, and now: As my thoughts flow consoled, I float as one with clockwork water… each bobbing second turns into gold.
Musing on the passage of time and learning to accept growing old.