Worms

I think it's only our limited perspectives, and the conventions of language they have generated, that ever supposed that time was something that could pass us by.  December 13th 1942 8:47:54 pm is when it is; the idea of its moving somewhen else is only even conceivable because I can string together words to describe it.

No, time is, to my mind, like unto dark glass: the more you try to look through, the less you can see, and yet this a world we fight desperately to traverse and survive.  No friendly river, this; time is solid, unmoving, hemming in our helpless mortality on all sides.  We fight it, not because we are strong, or proud, or even desperate, but simply because we must.  This helpless struggle in the dark, groping for any edge, any leverage we can use to pull ourselves another inch through something so unyielding, is part and parcel with existence, though not without its price.

Oh yes, glass yields only as shards and splinters, and the analogy holds; this hopeless tunneling through infinity will scrape us down to nothing.  First skin, then blood, and finally bones will be stripped from us, left floating in the wake that is our lifetime.  We go on, still, be cause to move through is to live; we reach out, still, searching for something time can't scrape away, something we can call eternal.