Time

Is it just me, or is time fascinating? Sometimes the most beautiful things aren't the sunsets, the starry nights, the falling snow or the autumn leaves, not the things which we look upon and appreciate but rather the things which we completely ignore. These things, once noticed, stand out like color embedded in dull greys, startling our conscious mind and demanding our focus. We see beauty in celebrities and fashion models, this beauty we observe as directed and appreciate as expected, but this other beauty is found in the wrinkles of old age. It is not that which has happened, or that which is yet to be, but that which is in process, slowly developing beyond our detection. This is the beauty of time.

We are forever consumed with its not yet and alreadys, its long ago and its when I grow ups. We pace nervously in anticipation and sigh heavily in our relief of a moment passed. We direct ourselves to seize the day which is yet to be, live for the moment that lies still in our past, and only live once conquering opportunities to experience the true extent of this sole lifespan. With all of our emphasis on life, the life lived and that which lies ahead, we overlook the beauty of this moment.

There will never be a time like this. In all my days, with all the thoughts I've yet to experience, I'll never recreate this instant. It is both entirely new and forever old, and as I pass it by I fail to acknowledge its work. As lines are formed, carved deeper and made bolder, I hope to one day be startled by the beauty of it all. Not to limit it to what is before me, or decide as to what deserves my attention, but to be aware of this silent beauty which simply is.