TIME. TIME. TIME.

(Original Image by Aaron Robinson)

Time.

Time, the Conqueror.

Time, the biggest bitch of them all.

All appropriate distinctions. All appropriate descriptors. Nobody gets out of this life unscathed, absolved of personal and natural sin. The latter is a new-age moralistic concept among philosophers: that time functions as a moral agent and, thus, acts immorally in its passing, degrading its constituents into twisted wax sculptures before bringing the hammer down. Don’t know if I buy it, but, on nights like tonight, I’m susceptible to the music. I’d like to think I wasn’t so naïve, especially into my thirties when god flattened more and more into a cardboard cutout while the devil plumped in length, width, depth, and time. I somehow had the idea implanted in me that you could stop time through an act of sheer will. Of course, this is absurd. But, I went through the dance anyway, and, consequently, generated a sense of depression, disappointment, and disgust in the present moment, which always lacked the magic of the preceding moment.

Some philosophers say the interpretation of time as a sequence of moments is an illusion created by our mammalian brains. They claim instead that time has been and always will be the eternal now, and that the past and future do not exist, but are mere concepts stumbled upon by a predictive mind, like a hangnail of consciousness. Those memories carry the same amount of pain when they’re extracted from you at inopportune moments. But, honestly, I couldn’t tell you if it was one way or the other. All I know is that the sadness is there, and it burns beneath the skin often, and there is little to do to ease the pain besides self-medication, whether it be substance or spirituality. They serve the same purpose ultimately: as a salve for the horrors of life, the tragedy of death, and the cold realization that good and evil fluctuate on the flip of a coin, and that both, and everything for that matter, are but silent specs of sand in the infinite cosmic ocean.

I only wish everything didn't have to crumble. I only wish there was one magic rose hidden amongst the others that never wilted, that there was one wide-eyed child that remained innocent and full of wonder. But still, the young become old in the blink of an eye, and our self-made citadels crumble, and our lifeless bodies fertilize the earth as the next generation balances across our bones into the next iteration of immortal youth. They never told us in school, never warned us, never advised us against the abyss of meandering middle-age, the sort of apathetic affect that consumes most of us, not through lack of trying, but from sheer exhaustion. The young have enough time and energy to rain fire and brimstone. They are primed and ready to tear down the kingdoms of the past and fashion a utopia in their image. It is clear no one has taught them what to expect on the other side of that struggle, what horrors they will release upon themselves and the greater world, all in the name of justice and, really, personal immortality. And yet, the cycle continues…

Time. Time. Time.

The Conqueror.

The biggest bitch of them all.