Time is divided into two rivers: one flows backward, devouring life already lived; the other moves forward with you exposing your life. For a single second they may be joined. Now.
Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.
Dividing life into stages is an ancient, unifying urge—an effort to contain something altogether too fluid, like trying to hold water in a cardboard box.
1w ago
Underscored — save the words that stop you in your tracks.
