Mourning the Passing of Time

Time they say is nothing more than the constant motion of things, whether in deep space, within us in the deep recesses of our body cells, and even in the seeming permanency of things considered durable and steadfast. Everything is in perpetual flux and this we find immutable. We are born, grow up and grow old.

Much as we do not want to at times, things change. Whether in attitudes and beliefs we desire to be steadfast and true. Whether in moods and likes that catch our fancy. We cannot hold on to them and freeze them in time. It is like grasping air. We do at times take pictures hoping to freeze them in time. But we can only recall, not relive.

Many of us stop, though only in a manner of speaking, trying to make sense of it. Others ignore it completely. Still, others do not want to confront it. But it plods along its merry way, unmindful of our acceptance or resistance.

But there is nothing to make sense of. It is simply a matter of living through a fleeting life that knows no better. Like being caught in a swirling whirlpool we typically find ourselves unable to counter the flow.

Thus, we mourn the passing of time, the passing of life. We mourn the regrets we should have entertained, and the happy events we had wanted not to end. Or the good things that could have been.

But is it that simple? That fateful?

Those we try to make sense of it, try to reach for an answer. Those that ignore are not interested. And those that are malleable do not care.

Don’t we at times find ourselves going against the grain? Swimming upstream or going against the tide? Or standing alone? Or wrenching away from the madding crowd?

So maybe there is a way out. A wormhole in time and space that allows us to shake off the fetters of formidable time. A way to freedom.

You tell me. Or go tell yourself, so maybe we can mourn no more.

Maybe it is that simple. Accept its inevitability and prepare for the end.

The end of life and that’s it. Nothing to come after. So we can move along because there is nothing to see here or there. Or expect.

What a useless and wasteful existence, and include there the entire creation. All the intricacies and beauty of nature and man, and all for naught. A creation that continues to this day, in nature and in man. In the vast recesses of his mind and the stupendous resourcefulness and versatility of his hands.

All for naught? In the aught and for all eternity?

There has to be a meaning of life and time. A purposeful meaning that merits all the hassles of its living.

If we can find the answer, then maybe we can mourn no more.

Is it any wonder that mourn rhymes with morn? I for one do not wonder. Mourn brings on morn where things look better exposed to sunlight.