From 158c9a33644b64b6ebddbe7097c651221d38d95e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Rye Progress Date: Sat, 26 Oct 2024 13:58:58 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/time-story.md | 7 +++++++ 1 file changed, 7 insertions(+) create mode 100644 writing/post-self/time-story.md diff --git a/writing/post-self/time-story.md b/writing/post-self/time-story.md new file mode 100644 index 00000000..620169ed --- /dev/null +++ b/writing/post-self/time-story.md @@ -0,0 +1,7 @@ +Time is a story I tell myself. Sentences twine around seconds like tendrils of loveliness or despair or energy or lethargy. Minutes are paragraphs of weal or woe. My hours are scenes that I live out. Days: stories. Years: novels. + +But a life? What is a life, anymore? Three centuries and no sign of quitting, and a lifetime seems to have lost meaning. Perhaps someday my life will end, and I will have left behind a finite oeuvre. Perhaps I will simply decide that I have had enough and draw a line across the end of the page and, however many bookshelves of story are left behind shall be all that ever was. + +Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century. + +I have joys to counter all of my sorrows. My head is, yes, in the clouds, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. My arms are full of the love of life. My home makes room for those I see as my family. Our lawns are for picnics and our beds are for dreams.