The flow of time.

I’ve found something I can’t seem to control, or influence. The effect of time.

Faced with the inevitability that my parents are getting older, that their health isn’t getting any better, that the people I love are fleeting like sand.

The notion that the more time goes on, the less time I have with them and that I will one day be alone, cut off from them as we’ll be in different dimensions. Time will have run out, and my lack of ability to fully appreciate all that they are will have flowed through my fingers.

Yet I am as conscious as I can be, and have been for a while, trying to savour our moments together. And somehow, the idea of savouring or trying to appreciate that moment seems foreign to them, as if the practice is seeing them as dead. Yet they are not, and that is why the want to somehow remember through a conscious light what they are is not a vain attempt. Yet, always seems to feel like a contradictory and awkward thing to do.

One day, looking back, one will regret one’s attempts to try to control anything. In one’s observance, struggling in quicksand comes to mind. Control seems anything but gracious. I can’t seem to remember many gracious emanations from myself, that frustrates me. And yet, I have many gracious blessings, mostly synchronicities through what I see and feel in my inner world. But if I’m the one who tries to manifest it, it seems off, it seems dumb and unrefined, as if a man stumbles and trips his way through life while also observing a flowing ballerina in rythme, in tune… Control seems to me about as adequate as using a hammer to open an egg.

And yet, when one looks back over one’s life, ones interactions, one’s intentions… its always lacking that blissful element, that man cannot utter a word without making the golden silence ugly, without ruining that which is already perfect, without the subtle grace that is already and doesn’t need to be altered.

And somehow, we want things from our parents, things, behaviours, acceptance, love, something. I wonder, if there is a subtle and graceful possibility to enjoy a mutual and subtle embrace of those one loves without damaging the present petal of a moment they represent in time.

How can one not damage? How can one not influence wrongly so? How can one not say the wrong thing? How can one speak yet be ‘Right on!’ and not disturb the gentle peace that’ll one day be a fading memory? How can one not look back, and regret one’s thumbling mistakes? And yet move on without fear of losing that unique exchange, the ever so mundane, that boring predictable moment that one will regret not ceasing if one moves forward carefree?

Perhaps all of this seems confused, it really isn’t. Or at least it’s me, talking to myself, trying to make sense of all the confusion that is the messy human condition, in all its shapes, forms and expressions. I suppose you cannot force a river to turn around, you must let it flow the way it wants to go

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