We invent things to make sense of all we don’t understand, we name the darkness and tell stories of the tiny pinpricks of light. We call them gods, these shapes of shine seated on a throne of emptiness. We watch the sun rise, we watch the sun fall, and we name all that in between as time. Time is an invented thing, relative only to our proximity to heavier things than ourselves, relative only to our distance from happiness, from sorrow, from ecstasy, from ache. There is a burning in us, some pull to something stronger than these earthly restraints, but we’re here, and so to make sense of this never-ending longing we cannot find a name for, we speak of hours, we whisper of final minutes before we believe we’ll arrive where we’ve been waiting to arrive.
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