Time presses forward, marching perpetually into the future and trailing behind like the phosphorous tail of a comet. Time flows, deceptively slow and almost undetectable like a calm river current, barely any motion upon the surface. Other times, it crashes through like a colossal tsunami pulverizing a path, merciless. It will not be limited or restricted. Time demands, devours even deflects but never ceases until we are out of time.
I love my time. I love the still moments of near motionlessness. I love the frenzy and frantic, even amidst the fury and anxiety. I love the languid leisure of using time, wasting time and taking my time. It is the one thing impossible to gift to another. I can share my time with you but I cannot give you time, augmenting your allotment. And so, I seek to share my time with you, share my flowers blooming, my bees gathering nectar and pollen, share the bread that bakes and the fabric that patches together. And with enough time, we shall look back and see a wide river of time shared and forward toward more time together.