Some may call me the Grinch for I have dismissed time of celebration.
Where the power goes, we go. No further, because we understand that a connection is everything.
It is universal.
Time is like birthdays, they fold over themselves one sheet at a time; the stories all combined into one progressive piece. The world sees each narration as an individual and the lump as a single combination. It is no more than numbers our brain fails to forget. It is our attachment to this world and inevitably to the thereafter.
Connection to my words: your ears, yours eyes, your mind; see these worlds as they are, but realize time is fleeing. We mustn't forget. We mustn't drop that proverbial ball. See the work, the day, the dawn, the sun and the moon. See the invisible flow, the webbing of the undercurrent as it streaks by.
I can feel the day grow long, time short. Thunder is everywhere. Thunder is always everywhere.
My shadow is elsewhere by now.
The world lights the darkness with strobes of many; cracks and grooves between door and walls bleed this light to the sunken halls where darkness lay. A bead behooves; it is everything. A bead is must. A bead guides; it shows me the secrets lost.
There is another.
I let the worry creep in. It surrounds me. It engulfs me, locks my muscles in place. I am forced to watch somewhere between the realm of consciousness and unconsciousness as the glow of the candle remits its fame.
Quick I shudder, quick I cover my eyes; it's too late, I see everything. The entire narration blinked, and for one brief second, I fail to breath.
Light, power is back; the glow corralled to a fixture where dances
electricity. I wipe my brow dry and realize the day is not over; it has yet to begin.
