Tristan Robert Lange

Hourglass

Have you ever wondered what exactly, in all the universe, is this thing we call time?

Of course, one could surface-explain the question away with a wise-crack retort,

“What the hell do you think it is, my man, other than a form of measurement?”

And that response, though rather shallow, is certainly true to the extent

That it is certainly used as a measurement of momentary blips

That we tie together into a string of blips we name hours,

Then days, then weeks, then months, you get it, no?

All the interconnected blips or moments

Are there as a mirage, an illusion

That points us to a dead end.

These moments are

Truly not

conn-

ect-

ed.

Each

Moment,

Each individual blip,

Is actually its own universe

As wide as the holes in our hearts—

As small as the tiniest speck of granular sand—

A grand canyon that can swallow up Poseidon’s harshest seas

And a mountain that, in a rage, can eject Zeus and the Olympians like hot fire

That rains down terror upon those who think that they’re gods. They can’t contain

The consequence of their folly; yet, they still race around from place to place in hopes

That they will one day find the secret to slow down the thing they’ve sped up by trying: Time.