The difficulty in life is the choice. When you are young, there seems to be so much time and so many choices, none of which seems to matter very much because it seems that later on you can always choose again. But then, suddenly, you are old.
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.
1mo ago
Underscored — save the words that stop you in your tracks.
