How is Time measured?

Is it held in the trapping bonds of specific mathematical equations and limitations? 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day… in this way, Time is only read as numbers. A never-ending clockwise cycle of ticks, tocks, and tolls of a bell.

Time, however, is limitless. He refuses bonds and extensions, and demands payment when payment is due. He shows no mercy- Time is purely, unforgivingly, and irrevocably cruel.

He passes silently, like a thief in the night, in the blink of an eye. He dances on our miseries and ecstasies, indifferent as to whether or not we so desperately need him to stay, stay still and hold on to the moment. No, Time keeps his own schedule.

I could never see him in the form of numbers. He holds no true logic, disregards any sense of rules. He’s mischievous, misleading, and disappointing. He is raw, fire-red emotion.

But I love him.

I do not see Time as something you could measure. I see Time as I see a spider’s web. Entangling, complex, delicate, and beautiful. So misunderstood and taken for granted in so many ways. His silken, sticky strands are woven under the pretense of catching the falling memories of a lifetime, when in the cold truth of reality, most strands merely catch dust of the forgotten past.

However… Time’s strands also catch the dew of the morning. He holds the diamonds of our lives under the safe clutch of his net, polishing them by day under the golden sunlight of living, and by night with the nostalgic moonlight of our dreams. Time cherishes these sacred moments. He guards them for us to remember who we are, and how we were made by our very own actions.

He never sleeps… he watches always, staying ever and merciless to his agenda, holding dear to our dewdrops.

He is constant.

He is true.

But he grows old as he walks our journey with us. His feet lose their energetic tick-tock bounce, his hands hurt from continuously gathering dew, and his eyes tired of reading the schedule.

All he can do is watch as we turn to dust, flying on a cold breeze to stick onto someone else’s web, and slowly… let go… of the teardrop dew. He shakes from his shoulders a timeline of action and consequence determined by a single variable. His attentions turn elsewhere, because they must.

That’s the way it has to be, for that is the way it always has been.

The question is… how will you walk your path with Time?