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Grace Hammond

Australia

These words
that are my own
Are my blood and
are my bones.

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In Our Time

December 8, 2015

Time was not created as was the earth. The existence of time does not rely upon the ability of humans to observe it. Before there was physicality, or light, or dirt, or breath, there was time. The interminable, inscrutable, inexplicable phenomenon of time. 

Then there was dust. The gathering of matter and substance in the creation of a perpetually beautiful and imperceptible earth. The formation of spilling bodies of water and the excavation of cavernous depths and the initiation of love between the deep ocean and the lustrous moon expressed entirely through careful fornication and the lingering caress of luminescence. The establishment of the potentiality of interpretation and wonderment. 

Then there was us. The meek observers convinced that our habitation of this vibrant organism is what allows it a definition. We perceived the beauty around us and imparted our own footprint; a personalized indentation in the naturalness and serenity. From each of our first breaths to our dying exhalations, our existence revolves around a perennial interpretation of the world around us and the inevitable shaping of such. 

Then there was you and me. You with your wit and your bashful brilliance and I with my fantasies and collections of words both my own and not. Our eyes aged by a fleeting piece of an ancient time look up to the smattering of stars above, just the same as so many before us. Here we stand, on this earth touched by hands and memories older and wiser than we. Our fingers graze the contours in this perturbed world and carve our own patterns. In the time that is ours, you and I breathe in the world around us with hands clasped together; this moment we behold as impermanent as we know each other to be. You laugh with your heart and your eyes and I smile sadly, watching you as you watch me. This, like so much else, is ours. 

Then there is no us. And time aches on. And we are as unimportant in the evolving world in which we breathed as we were important to each other. And there are others who breathe our old air just as we did someone else's, but it is theirs now. 
And all of us and our ended moments are immortal as is time. 

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  • December 8, 2015 - 7:15am (Now Viewing)

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