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theatrical_muse Time
Mar. 20th, 2007 12:51 pmTime is meaningless.
In the back room of his shop, Bilis sat at the table. Before him lay pieces of one of his many timepieces, cogs and springs; some of them tiny and all of them delicate. The face sat just off to one side next to the case. The tools were just as fine and in the hands of such a master would do their job and soon have the antique clock working along with all the rest.
At least it is when only viewed with the nearsightedness that humans can only wrap their tiny minds around. For the most part they are born, they grown, they go to work and then consider themselves so very lucky if they live their allotted four score years. In the interim they rush around from one place to another, complaining of not having enough hours in the day because they are mindlessly clicking keys in a cubicle, sitting in their car stuck in traffic as they run their offspring to some class or another, or they wonder how to fit in a few minutes with their lover while keeping their spouse completely in the dark.
And then they hope, and most of them believe, that when they have lived such a fulfilling life, they will eventually be admitted to His realm. How wrong they can be.
Cogs fit into cogs. Springs hold each in place. A balance is added, a part to regulate the passage of time. A soft, gentle movement with each 'tick' and 'tock'.
Their view of Time is just so linear, and they find themselves running out of it so quickly.
So very few understand (and fewer still can do it without the aid of some sort of machine) that it is the most fluid and variable of dimensions.
I can step across entire eras with no more difficulty than stepping into another room. I can see the whole of history, even if I don't belong within it. However, all of it is there for the taking and manipulating.
The workings are placed back into the housing. The face fits snugly onto the front. Tick, tock and the hands begin to mark time. A minute passes and the larger hand clicks down as present becomes past, the future present.
Let it remain meaningless for it is best they remain in ignorance.
In the back room of his shop, Bilis sat at the table. Before him lay pieces of one of his many timepieces, cogs and springs; some of them tiny and all of them delicate. The face sat just off to one side next to the case. The tools were just as fine and in the hands of such a master would do their job and soon have the antique clock working along with all the rest.
At least it is when only viewed with the nearsightedness that humans can only wrap their tiny minds around. For the most part they are born, they grown, they go to work and then consider themselves so very lucky if they live their allotted four score years. In the interim they rush around from one place to another, complaining of not having enough hours in the day because they are mindlessly clicking keys in a cubicle, sitting in their car stuck in traffic as they run their offspring to some class or another, or they wonder how to fit in a few minutes with their lover while keeping their spouse completely in the dark.
And then they hope, and most of them believe, that when they have lived such a fulfilling life, they will eventually be admitted to His realm. How wrong they can be.
Cogs fit into cogs. Springs hold each in place. A balance is added, a part to regulate the passage of time. A soft, gentle movement with each 'tick' and 'tock'.
Their view of Time is just so linear, and they find themselves running out of it so quickly.
So very few understand (and fewer still can do it without the aid of some sort of machine) that it is the most fluid and variable of dimensions.
I can step across entire eras with no more difficulty than stepping into another room. I can see the whole of history, even if I don't belong within it. However, all of it is there for the taking and manipulating.
The workings are placed back into the housing. The face fits snugly onto the front. Tick, tock and the hands begin to mark time. A minute passes and the larger hand clicks down as present becomes past, the future present.
Let it remain meaningless for it is best they remain in ignorance.
