Duration

Life becomes time. And time is something experienced in retrospect. A day crossed off a wall calendar. A hand sweeping past a number on a watch face. A kettle set to boil. That explodes in steam and heat. An alarm that jars the bones. A ritual futility. A measurement meticulously and lovingly conducted. Life is duration.

Consciousness of our own mortality. Is kept at arms length. To focus too clearly on death. Is thought morose. So we check off the days with pencil lead or ink. And feel eternity sliding through our fingers. With every flick of the wrist. Unmeasured means un-lived. But life is constantly ebbing away. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. We live by delusion.

There's the power of perception. The ability to pick and choose. What is known, but kept is the shadows. And what sees the light of thought and conversation. The clock remains on the table. With only an occasional. Sneak peak glimpse. Over the shoulder. When no one else is looking. Until it moves beyond the craning head. A train in the distance.

Time wears life. Like a garment stolen. An invisible entity. Given form, if not substance. By myself and a hundred billion others. I am the shoes of endless days. And she the coat. And he the hat. All stylishly bourn. I am an hourglass filled with dust. I am an echo in a hall. Ticking. Like a clock. Like a bomb. Like a breath. Time is damnation.