This is the first, of what I hope to be many times a friend has asked to share a piece of their writing here on my blog. It is entitled, "I have had..."
I have had 23 short years in this life, and have seen many futures for myself, but have not had the aptitude to reach out and align my trajectory with a possible fate that I deem desirable. I feel my life is a game of Russian Roulette, and I’m not the one holding the pistol but rather watching from the corner of the room, dreading the final outcome with every spin, preparing for the worst, but doing nothing to prevent or alter this fate, the fate that is so hastily being woven in front of my eyes. It is a nightmarish illusion that I deem a reality.
Fate is not a predestination of a final ending place for oneself, nor is it the predetermination of an amalgamation of steps pointing to a specific destination, but rather, A reflection of a summation of both conscious and unconscious, willing and unwilling decisions made by oneself constantly leading to the end of a journey... To a location not known by the traveller, until they have arrived.
I have had 23 short years in this body, and have seen many futures for myself, but time does not change for me as I see it accelerate. I actively observe the time passing like water leaking from my cupped hands. Despite my desperate misguided efforts to build, shape, and form, the water is merely water, it does not form anything more than the simple liquid it is once it passes through my fingers. Idle hands are the devils plaything but what happens if no-thing is done at all as time passes? As we accelerate to 0, what will I have to show for myself besides some wet hands and a life of regret and fear?
Time is not a constant when perceived by a living creature or beast, but rather it is a paradox, constantly shifting speeds in the eyes of those curious or wary enough to behold it. Like a falling body in a frictionless atmosphere, time accelerates until the body is obliterated at the point of impact, a certain eternal silencing guided by merely by a simple quadratic. Each passing year is a faster than any before it as the time for importance and meaning slips through the fingers like grains of sand in an hour glass. In all instances the final answer is zero.
Written by: Andrew Wallner
Written by: Andrew Wallner
