I have four letters in my name,
Four unprepossessing letters.
I am written down in your book so easily,
So recognizably,
So succinctly,
I am impressed.
A four-letter word,
An unprepossessing, recognizable, succinct word
That can only be meaningful
In the context of human existence.
I am measured by the demarcation of long and short intervals
Etched onto the wheel of evolution
And pocketed into eras of past, present and future.
I am inexorably expressed in the constant churning of day into night
And the battering of interplanetary revolutions
Upon the temples of our own solar systems.
I am wound tightly into the cogs of the seasons
And inked indelibly into earth’s orbit of the sun.
I mark everything in your existence with a yardstick
By which you can judge your position
In relation to everything surrounding your consciousness.
I am a concept from which you can never be free.
I am the sentinel of this universe
And you are captive in my stockade.
It would be best if you made friends with me.
My parameters are set,
And although I move constantly
I am immovable.
‘Inevitable’ is my hallmark description,
My force is untamable and impossible to arrest.
I am the intrinsic fabric of this universe’s construction.
I am the framework on which the system is built.
I came first and the decorations later.
If you strip away every element of human existence,
It is only at the stopping of the clock
That dissolution really occurs.
The whole illusion is built, essence upon essence,
From the first unit of an event inserted
Into the demarcation of an interval.
Knowing all this is of no use except to help you understand
That without me existence is non-existent,
And that you had best come to terms
With the limitations I saddle you with
So that you do not leave my jurisdiction
Before harvesting the crop that can only be grown here.
For within my confines
Lies the treasure of knowing mortality.
Concealed among the chaff and husks of the harvest
Lie the sweet, edible grains of understanding and realization.
Buried between the layers of threshing and sifting
Hidden truths are to be found
That are apparent nowhere else.
And it is because of my gift to you,
That of finality and the perception of limited resources,
That you are compelled to seek the fruit of human birth
And partake of its sweetness
Before it drops to the ground
And decays,
Its value wasted –
Spoilt and unrecognized.
[Time is an extraordinarily valuable tool that longs to be seen for its true value to us in this finite paradigm. Its constant ‘breathing down our necks’ wills us to wake up and perceive the true value of life.
Short of being able to speak to us directly, it does all in its power to make us uncomfortable in the full glare of its presence. It invades our every day with an urgency in whatever form it can manifest, goading us into action to serve our own souls as best we can given the circumstances in which we are placed.]
mystic storyteller 