

| Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. | 
| I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach.  It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone.  What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in?  Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense.  After all, this is just a blog. | 
| It’s that time of the month when I am waiting for the end of the month so a new month will begin.  I scan  all the bills and the bank ledger to make sure everything got paid and nothing snuck through unexpectedly while the rent check exists in that uncertain and cloudy period of time between its issuance and its presentation. That’s how I track time today  - solemnly aware of how short it is, while wishing entire days of it away. When I was a kid in school, time was measured by bells and serious black-framed clocks prominently displayed in every classroom. The hands slowed down after noon and barely moved at all as they approached dismissal time. Afternoons lasted forever. The time between dismissal and bedtime nearly danced away. It ran ahead of me and I never caught it. Later, time was measured on time cards or by watchful eyes. No forgiveness for time wasted. Living for weekends to have some time of my own. It doesn’t matter, you know. There’s never enough time and still we bid it hurry on, ever onwards. Time wasted, so much time wasted. |