Can You Tell Me What Time It Is?

Such a funny thing, time. Apparently, there is a time for everything. And a season for every activity under heaven:

A right time for birth and another for death, a right time to plant and another to harvest, a right time to kill and another to heal, a right time to destroy and another to construct, a right time to cry and another to laugh, a right time to lament and another to cheer, a right time to make love and another to abstain, a right time to embrace and another to part, a right time to search and another to count your losses, a right time to hold on and another to let go, a right time to rip out and another to mend, a right time to shut up and another to speak up, a right time to love and another to hate, a right time to wage war and another to make peace.

That’s from the Bible, in Ecclesiastes, chapter 3, and I have no clue what time it is.

So flighty and persistent and irreverent, time is. Plowing through everyone and everything in its path; leaving in its wake a mess of poor, rusted souls drowning in the ebb and flow of their own disproportionate shadows, fruitlessly triangulating their own flickering lights, akin to sleepy, hollow jack-o-lanterns long after the candy-crazed hordes have gorged themselves to the cusp of sugar-induced comas.

When time dissolves away the facade of what has or has not been done, how could it ever be undone? How would a person ever recover from such a devastating blow as realizing they’ve wasted the gift of time that time gave them?

So now what? Am I left in that place between asleep and awake desperately trying to make sense out of all that I’ve done and not done; all that I’ve said and not said — as if my life or someone else’s hangs in the balance at each fork in my road? Am I abandoned in this place where fear is god, and god is the notion that I missed an appointment… that the right times to do the right things have vaporized while I sit frozen in an ice storm trying to determine precisely when is the right time to do or say what needs to be done or said?

Gridlock. How critical it is to have a dependable clock.

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