Time

As I read this, I find it amusing in a way.  At the end, I will tell you why.

What is time?  Is it some bold demon which rushes us around, forever pushing and shoving us unrelentlessly?  Something to be scorned because it sometimes brings us grief or distemper?  Or is it some fickle, unseen force that is always gone when we think we need it most. 

To some people it is all this and more.  But we do not find it truly represented here.  When you consider it’s vast greatness we see that it has been harshly judged.  It does not rush us as time itself is not rushed, but a graceful and methodical movement.  A thing of beauty which cannot  be scarred of disfigured by the misunderstanding of man.

Grief and distemper are caused by earthbound occurrences.  Therefore time cannot be their maker as it is not harnessed to earth, but stretches onward into foreverness.  Again, we cannot call time fickle as it does not favor one being then scamper off to another.  It works for everyone, never slowing, never tiring, accomplishing many things in our changing world.  Too often it is one of the wonderful God given gifts which is taken to much for granted.  Although unseen, unheard, and untouched, we always know it shall be their, guiding us through war and peace.  It is a silent watchdog firmly guarding us, yet asking no reward.

This is time.  Old yet young, bestowing it’s graces in the past, leading us safely through the present, and continuing with us into the future, into time itself.

I was going through some old papers this morning.  They were some things my mother sent us many years ago, and they have been following us in the same envelope for at least forty five years, moving from closet to closet.  Most were pencil drawings she had done as a girl back in the twenties, but tucked in the middle was the above essay, written in my boyhood scrawl. I had forgotten about it and was surprised and pleased to find it.  It was the first thing I ever wrote.  I was fourteen.  After reading it again, it is probably the reason I didn’t start writing again until I was in my sixties.  Just sayin.

About oldmainer

I am a retired manager living in Southern Maine and a would be writer of poetry, narratives, short stories, and random opinions, and that's how Oldmainer was born. Recently, I decided to try an experiment. I added photography to the mix, using only a cheap cell phone with a limited camera and the editing software that came with it, and added the blog site Inklings at poormanspoet.wordpress.com to showcase the results. So, feel free to use whatever you find interesting or worthy, but please honor the terms of my copyright when and if you do. They may not be much, but they are still a piece of me. I appreciate your checking me out and hope that you find something that will encourage a return visit. Thanks for stopping by.
This entry was posted in History, Memories, Reflection, Writing, Youth and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Time

  1. quiall says:

    Actually I found it quite eloquent. Even more so when I read you were 14! Time is a wide reaching topic with many segues and yet it never bends

    Like

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