I stay busy.
Sometimes that is the answer, and sometimes it is the question.
My busyness passes the time, with actions which seem necessary and important, but which are neither necessary nor important.
Time Passes. Busy Happens. I barely have time to reflect upon the closing of a day, when another begins.
When I was young, Time was in a box, a detailed box with gold leaf, holding promise and the unknowable, sitting closed upon my dressing table, patiently waiting.
Now, it is a beautiful bird soaring above me at speeds I can’t approach or understand.
When I was young, Time was an idea. As I age, Time has become real, tangible, and touchable.
It never leaves me. It waits for me while I sleep, watches me through my day, tucks me into bed each night.
As I ride the bird, I can see behind me, and sometimes I catch glimpses of the up-ahead.
I know how this will ultimately turn out. There is no turning back.
Until that time, there is only Awake. Busy, Open, Awake.