AT five in the afternoon, the light from the west was kind. I was at the porch. The essay due Wednesday night was finished. There was too much time for me for a week now. There had always been too much time for me. From what my friends would tell me, they too have had much time in their hand.
My time is unreal. It appears to overtake everything around me.
It is the kind of time that goes on but is, without notice, terminated because there is an anxiety from within that tells us something soon, or too soon, will occur. And we cannot stop it. Then it is that kind of time that is mean as it holds for us a horizon that neither wilts nor waits. It is out there threatening every one of us of events that are innumerable and beyond our control. These events are not anymore within our imagination. Time becomes non-human even as, thankfully, we hope it will not become inhuman.
Both in our youth and in our age (for those who are older), time is the consort that accompanies our steps. We live each day in plans that grow from our surroundings. No fantasy and no flights of fancy even in the most ridiculously ambitious ambition.
Time is with us as we vouch for anniversaries, or markers of celebrations, as when an infant becomes a toddler, a young girl begins to wear ribbons, and a couple spends more hours with each other during sunsets. Time of old holds our hands but it never tarries, and it does not leave us.
But the time we have now in this age of desolations and quick deaths persuades us differently.
Ancient but full of vigor, the time given to us by this universe now marches to its own rhythm. If, by this time, you already have felt how this manifestation of time stops all movements (remember, it is no more the mere accompanist), then you are fortunate.
This week, I felt I have finally apprehended the essence of this time, the being of this time. This week, as two young men we consider as kin, passed on with the suddenness that is presently regulated and regular, I found solace in giving up grief. And grieving—the seizure of auspicious daily human affairs and the corollary deadline for any suspension of truths and sadness—is within the realm of time.
“Meaningless, all this is meaningless,” I whispered to myself. From hereon I should look for meaning in all things that happened within a time.
This morning, I went out early and stopped by the gate. I felt the lock and wondered why we lock things. Then the chirping of the early birds became clear. There were many of them. Some of them were so tiny they were lost in the green leaves of the small tree.
Last night, near dusk, I looked up at the sky. Time has enabled me—us—to look up at any sky. The clouds were gray and the entire sky was a wasted blue, with bits of yellow and sad pink. I took photos of the sky and posted them online. Dear friends greeted me; a cousin seemed happy I had time to look up and be amazed by the space above. I looked intently at one of the photos and saw the shadow of a thing flying against the vast sky. I urged myself to find substance in that flight. I had enough time for meanings, more time to gaze at the heavens and collect metaphors. Time was giving me the gift of appraising shadows. I should not waste this time.
At night, my sister from the other side of the ocean, sent a message: “Look at the moon! I am seeing a square moon.” I got up from the table and went out to look for the moon. Time had given me opportunities to inspect the night sky and the moon. I held my phone and took photos of the bright moon. The photos were sent and technology quickly allowed my sister to see what I saw. “Yours is a full moon?” she half-asked and half-answered that question.
My moon was brighter than her moon whose face was half-eaten by time again.
I stayed near the gate; I had to wait for the food delivery. The moon shone above as I waited for this most practical thing in my life now. My phone rang. It was the delivery man and he was asking where he could bring the food. I tried not to lose my patience because I had all the time in the world to be patient and to endure waiting. I mentioned my address. He kept on telling me the map was giving him a different location. “Was I close to the crematorium?”
“Ignore the location,” I told the delivery man. A few minutes after and he was at the gate.
That night, I went out again, and tried to check if my moon had turned square. Time had made my moon brighter. The moon also brought with it this yellow and white cat who found solace in my porch. I looked at the cat, unmoving, and wondered what deep, deep meaning I could attribute to its presence.
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