Time

How to begin a concept with no beginning or end.

A concept that simply is.

Whether one will accept it or not

is a narrative subject exclusively to customization.

A man-made creation like luck or the Devil.

Except this one is real—and all we have.

I wish not the life of another,

for the music would not sound the same,

the books would not call to me,

and these words would not stumble so poorly.

The sky would be a bit bleaker,

and the duck on the curbside would have meant to me

what the sand is to the stars.

So, see, I yearn not for the life of another.

Not that life.

The stability—or security, though not to be mistaken to go hand in hand—

brought forth by that life and the decisions it’s taken;

that is what is desired.

So fiercely it is incapacitating,

and consequently,

stagnating.

But do not mistake my dreadfully imperfect words;

I wish not to live a life that’s not my own.

‘But it is so easy. Find your vocation!’

What to do when it all is?

Time is not enough to perfect yourself in it all.

Yet, if you dip your toes in all the absurdities it has to offer,

in all that kick starts your brain even remotely,

just for a blink,

then you remain a dilettante.

A dabbler, a fake.

Fraudulent, even.

A cold and grimy room.

The same one I am also uncomfortable in upon becoming a virtuoso only at the expense of sacrificing all other knowledge and devoting myself to the profession I chose out of a hat.

Now try too little and you’re a coward.

There is too much I enjoy.

so much to experiment with,

to learn,

to inevitably mess up so colossally I become disgraceful,

to appreciate and cherish.

This rock has a stupendously overwhelming amount to offer.

How, sensibly, am I to choose one over the other?

Thoughtlessly or not, should I not choose just one,

then I remain a cheat.

If there is one thing time has made us all,

even if imperceptibly so,

is selfish.

True to myself, but selfish, nonetheless.

Because I want it all.

I want to speak of it all,

to share it all,

bond with it all.

And not just the words I string together to call a book.

A husband and a confidant,

a companion,

and a father.

Naturally, a family,

and this career—which, Time, o Time, has forced me to pursue—

and enough friendship to make me dizzy.

None of this can I deny; I am as selfish as they come.

And there is only one to blame, though it is not I.

I thought perhaps it was youth, the one haunted by this Time.

But it’s simply the same merciful ghost that guides tired souls over.

It’s the one the nescient—

from pride, guilt, or fear—equal in measure—

run away from,

and the wise accept with open arms.

The only cord you cannot cut.

Time,

fortunately or unfortunately is entirely up to oneself,

is all.

It heals,

only to turn around and do the exact opposite.

First, it’s anxiety:

When are you having children?

When do you graduate?

When are you moving away?

To turn into bitter regret:

Why didn’t you accept?

Why didn’t you visit?

Why didn’t you try?

The only constant is the sand filling the glass bulbs.

Time passed or the one we eagerly,

or contrarily,

very dreadfully,

anticipate.

To my unpleasant surprise,

my time appears to be everyone else’s,

and theirs mine.

What best to do with this incessant thing?

To love, it seems.

To admire and value the way the skies darken

only to shine again.

Or the lizard’s dance at your doorstep,

a greeting after a long day of work.

The way she asked if you were alright.

What a pesky friend, that Time.

The one I’ve no choice but to keep around.

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— A.M. Sención

2024