*she turned around with a shudder and sighed*
you want to see the way I see,
so be it.
take the hourglass and break it,
shatter it against the table.
now shove your hand in the mound of sand there.
let your fingertips dip into the sand
as if it were the layers of a pond,
for it doesn’t flow now, the sand,
it’s static, it’s all there,
all the grains that just a minute earlier defined,
in such a shallow way,
your course.
*gritting grains of sand between her nails*
time without the flowing is still time –
but you are so used to the flow
that you forget about the essence of that which flows.
that, mainly, is you.
what do you think happens when you pour yourself,
your clay figurine,
into the static sand?
nothing happens. nothing at all.
you just have a different perspective of the “everything”,
and that’s what scares you,
the premonition that you’d see it all in one glimpse
and you wouldn’t like what you saw.
this is why humans prefer the flowing sand to the static one –
because, despite their apparent eagerness for knowing the future
as long as time is fluid, they live under the impression
that they can change the shape into which it courses,
and they can choose the shape.
the only problem is
*gazing at an imaginary cloud of an indefinable colour*
there is no shape at all.
it’s just us – each and every one.


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