The arrow of time twist and turns through our lives, weaving a tapestry of days gone by, far off memories, dreams to be realized.
The wonderful entanglements of children's voices bouncing off floors, their hands waving in sibling rivalries, their bodies splashing into the pool of life, offering bystanders the overspray of innocence on a hot afternoon.
The purr of a cat, her head nuzzled between the sun beaten skin of a weakening neck and a steadfast jaw clenched in dutiful silence while dreams of snatching birds in mid-flight waltz across breaths and heartbeats twitching claws that dig into papery flesh.
The neglected dog paces back and forth until he loses all hope and refrains from so much as an attempted illusion of freedom away from the sweltering, flee infested patch of dirt that has become his home, his prison, his uneventful desert.
The dreamer. The artist. The philosopher. All stand with their souls slightly hunched over, leading with a shoulder more in non-committal defense than any clearly defined plan of attack against a world that loses ideas as easily as people in the ebb and flow of desire and survival.
The needle works its way under the skin and into the bone, down to the spongy marrow soaking up sunrises and mythologies, songs of ancestral feet migrating with the seasons, the forgotten last breath of Lazarus, the transcience of an echo.
This, we willfully hold in our hearts, but the arrow of time is dismissed as nothing more than the shadow of passing stranger.
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