My mood this morning is best described as somber. Witnessing mortality express itself will do that to a person. On the other hand, reality with all its messy attributes tends to expose hopes and dreams as artifice. Mortality puts the expectation of everlasting life in sharp relief. Mortality emphasizes the need to experience life to its fullest while time allows that experience to take place.
There it is again. Time, that artificial construct, plays with us as if we were toys. And I suppose we are. We are playthings in the hands of a mischievous and cruel universe that doesn’t care whether we laugh or cry. It’s not that the universe doesn’t care; it can’t care. Caring also is an abstract dimension created by us to compress or extend the sensation of time. In a sense, we create the universe of which we are a part. So if we are playthings, we are toys of our own making, toys crafted from the thin shavings of time. Without time, we are not—and do not have any—toys.
Circular thinking becomes spherical thinking becomes misunderstanding becomes tarnished wisdom with enough time and coffee.
