Reckoning

I used to like cold rains at this time of the night. I don't anymore. It stirs up the emotions that are now dead to me.

I glance into this empty glass trying hard to find the answers, yet remaining indifferent to my dripping wet shirt. Or so I thought. It's hard to escape this sharp cold when it keeps reminding me of the warmth I felt when I hold her hands. When you can't keep the promises you blindly made, it comes back like a plague you can't run away from.

Maybe I don't need to find the answer. Maybe I just need someone to listen to. Maybe this empty glass is that someone. I wonder how many stories it has drank up. I wonder how it's still standing after all it has seen all. You can't but marvel at its surviving skills. The one that survived to tell every story.

Time as a source of salvation

I dream of its gift and I pity the science. I admire the conflict it triggers- the reality of the eternal or the illusion of the flux. The struggles of the human experience sometimes puzzles me whether 'the real' or 'the true' is present in a false or a lesser reality. Is there a 'real time' and a 'false time'? Maybe a real time is a time that encompasses 'significant' experiences- those having purpose and direction. Would then a false time be a time which returns onto itself ? But is the 'significant' already a part of the 'significant' waiting to be understood by us? Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in time past.

I wonder whether the phrase 'there is a time for everything' is a hearsay. Maybe it envelops the mere existence representing death in life and the spiritual rebirth with life in death. But there is time to prepare a face to meet the faces we meet. There will be a time to murder and create; time yet for a hundred indecisions; for a hundred visions and revisions. Having remained irresolute in the midst of the possibilities of salvation within our ordinary temporal experience, we will continue till we die.