“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
“There’s always light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
“Your time is up.”
What, exactly, will time tell? Will it tell me that my days are numbered? Personally, I’d like to think that my days are worded. My days are stories, one-by-one as a child, then a dozen, then hundreds as the years roll on.
I’m loaded with hundreds of stories to tabulate in the recess of my worded mind. But numbers do nothing to show the light, the darkness, the glimmering shadows in my days and years. No measurement can express the pain and joy, the immensity of living, of loving, of cracking through the darkness of existence to join the bright, warm, embracing light.
I’ve seen that final/beginning encompassing light, briefly, a few times. Close to death? At the time, it seemed as if I was closest to life when I was sucked into a tunnel, where sound disappeared, as well as recognition of who I was and where I belonged. Instead, I floated toward a sweet emptiness that counted no minutes or hours, but instead told a story of pure love, pure bliss, unknowable in our waking hours.
But am I wasting your time, and mine, guessing about when our time is up, yours and mine? Or will our time be down, down to the basics of our end, or hopefully our beginning? Can time be wasted when we write our stories and share them within ourselves and then to the outside world?
Stories are the hourglass of our life, sifting through the thin glass of existence. When our time is done, are we turned upside down, to begin new stories all over again?
What do you think?