The Case of the Missing Clocks

The happy person has no future.

Averse to the present, consciousness is the mind’s time machine.

I’m afraid that if I stop counting the years days hours minutes, life will overwhelm me. (Overwhelm me!)

Freedom is the power to release the potential of this moment to diverge from what has come before.

Behind the clockface – time’s false mask – order and chaos clinched in an eternal embrace.

When it comes to the future, we have as little imagination as clucking chickens – and far less than silent eggs.

A beloved face ages just like that – there are no words to describe it.

Some write to forget the unforgettable. I write to remember the unrememberable.

Life is not chronological - coming at one from all sides, it refuses to be ordered into a straight line.

Now is the event horizon of time’s black hole.

Exploding out of time, the event is what keeps on happening.

Time is not money.

Time is an omnivorous flowering.
Ever ripening, time is a fruit that never ripens.
Time is a chambered nautilus, a pearly spiraling in a spiraling sea.
Time is a two-faced amphibian, compounded of water and air.
Time is a karma kaleidoscope.
Time is an ouroboros ceaselessly shedding its skins.
Time is a queer contagion spreading an irresistible strangeness.
Time is a sleeping bat dreaming upside-down dreams.
Time is a swarm of bees making love to a field of clover.
Time is our insatiable mother.
Time is a falling Alice.
Time is a vanishing magician, disappearing with his bag of tricks.
Time is the universe’s blackhole lost-and-found.
Time is a furious shuttle weaving its fateful threads between our lives and deaths.
Time is a perilous bridge joining the possible to the impossible.
Time is a perverse pendulum steadily marrying contraries.
Time is what happens when nothing is happening.
Time is an atlas of all possible worlds - with a stupendous appendix of all the impossible ones.
Time is the chaosmicomic chronochrographic folding and unfolding of space.
Time is the atheist’s joyful amen.

One-question-one, one-question-two, one-question-three . . . My internal clock (my heart’s inner hourglass) is filled with questions instead of sand. When the questions run out – time’s up.




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