No time again today. Life does not fly by as much as it ignores us if we choose to only work through it. No, it does not ignore us, it punishes us with age, in years, with the ghosts of assumed wisdom. No, stop it, life does neither of these things. It is what we daily choose to do to ourselves, we only blame time. We assign the fault ever elsewhere. We learn to hate and fear the passing of it. We choose the busy work of our days mostly out of a vague and indeterminate terror, only occasionally out of desire, when our occupation allows us, when it grants us the imitation gift of ourselves back to ourselves in the term of a weekend. We numbly assuage the inner resentments of lost time with the distractions that we call art. Sometimes there is art. We snatch little pieces of it away from the day, clutching the fragments. Upon such thin pedestals does life slip by, flipping amongst the acropodiums, jumping from plinth to plinth in the traveling circus of love.
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