The eyes of the moon gaze down, surveying all around. Can the moon hear the tree falling in the forest? "I see the moon. The moon sees me." Maybe the man in the moon is up there just laughing at us all - our antics to him, our lives to us. Then again, perhaps it is with the eyes of compassion that he watches us down here, silently wishing he could reach down and give someone a little nudge here, an urgent warning there. Why should we see the stars as still and silent? Why shouldn't they be our team, our backup? The stars, the heavens, are on our side. Just like the angels we could imagine flittering back and forth between them. Our existance intertwined with things beyond this sphere, larger than the realm of our consciousness - our meaning, our purpose, our being will go on long after all the ticks of mortal clocks - our feeble attempts to capture the trick of time - are heard no more.
Time, gripped by mortal hands and made to be linear. Divisions of an unknown substance run our lives. The tick and tock of the clock never stop, never vary, and yet despite our insistence on its linearity time still wriggles free of our increasingly tight grasp, to run away from us in leaps and bounds beyond those the imagination can conjure up, or to stop and stand in front of us, grim and immovable, like a solid wall we are forced to pick our way through bit by painful bit. No matter how hard we try to chain it up or tie it down, time always has another trick up its sleeve, another Hudini escape planned. Time needs only an instant to work its magic and pull the wool over our eyes long enough to take us on a careening roller coaster ride, drop us over the edge of a cliff, or force us to sit chained still, watching in agony every second we ascribe to it. Time is the ultimate trickster.
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