On Isolation and the Gaps in Time
Silence, nothing but your only company. Silence, all that separates Time from itself. You hear nothing but yourself, alone, walking with the cold air, and breathing your thoughts in. For you cannot eat the world. You walk. You pause. And you walk again. And there, following you. Time, all by itself. Watching. Asking. Waiting.
As you decide to eat your lunch, you think about what you have done yesterday. Talked with friends or the people you think you’re friends with, read books, logged on the internet. And you pause for a moment, between sips, because you feel a tingling sensation rushing from your back to your neck. Perhaps it is the cold air. Perhaps.
You then realize it’s not. You see, the cold days are over and the yellows and reds are out in the greens again. There, watching you, is Time with its fast-beating heart; asking for your reply, is Time with its plain, sad eyes; and waiting, just waiting, is Time with its welcoming hand.
You hear nothing but the silence. You then find out that you are ever more alone, not in this moment, but in between the gaps of time. Knowing you have acknowledged the idea of it all, there, breathing, is Time.
The movement of water in the glass, the sound of trees dancing just outside your house, and the distant cries of the city burning in white flames—you start to notice everything. For Time has given you time. And between the gaps in time, you fall in its beauty.
You stand up and take your now-empty plates and your half-filled glass. You pause for a moment and you breathe the air you shared with Time. And there, alone again, you smile.
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