Time: a fleeting glimpse of what has past us by, yet endless:
Each passing day a grain of sand receding to the ocean upon shell studded beach.
And I, no more than a speck of dust in the measuring of the universe,
See time as though it were there; yet
How to measure the present: an interesting question.
By the lives it has touched?
The hand of a clock move too slowly to truly capture the present:
Me, I am writing this now, but soon now will be then,
Like an hourglass, the sands of now soon sift into the past.
Is there a present?
Are you affected by it, or has what effected you turned into the past before your eyes?
Future: What will I be like in the future?
When do I find out?
Will I ever find out?
It seems as if we are always one pace behind our own footsteps…
Will my life be significant in the long run?
Or will I just live up to what we all are:
An organism trapped in this fantasy we call life?
It seems as if we’re all here; yet
Infinity: Is it real?
Where do we go when our time here is over?
Does time have meaning?
Or do we all just recede back to nothingness and cease to be…
Now: is there such a thing, or is it just a word created to make up for all the things that we have missed
And all the loved ones we have lost?
Are we real? Is anything real?
Will we ever find out who we truly are, or our purpose here?
Before we fade away, deep into the recesses of Time...