Still Point 

 There is a stillness, in the vastness, of the turbulence of life. The still point of a turning world revolving on itself. Transcendent and expansive. Ethereal. Sublime. A stillness set in motion by the act of introspection. A perpetual awareness of the present and the past. 

 The silent sound of timelessness. The boundlessness of time.

 Time alone is meaningless. It is synthetic and surreal. It is an artificial construct by which we regulate our lives. Time exists to mark itself by intervals and ticks. A chronology of metrics to describe the shape of time. A measurement of time itself without feeling or emotion. 

 Time comes and goes, but never stays, because time is just a concept. 

 Time is only relevant by the meaning that we give it. And, the only meaning time can have, is the memory it makes. A child is born. A parent dies. The laughter of a friend. Our first true love. A broken dream. The experience of living. Precisely and decisively, they make us who we are. In the absence of those memories, time does not exist.  

‘Being with you and not being with you’, said Jorge Luis Borges, ‘is the only way I have to measure time.’

Neither absolute nor relative, time is rooted in perception. Not the speed with which the time may pass, but how we pass the time—the quality of who we are not the quantity of years. It is the content of our character that gives context to our lives. We do not pass through time, itself. Time simply passes by. 

 Every second is an hour. Every hour is a day. Every day has been a lifetime of moments just like this.

 I think about the life I’ve lived, and the life that I am living. How quickly time has seemed to pass, but how slowly time is passing. How nothing really seems to change, from one day to the next, but looking back on where I’ve been, how everything is different. The longer that I live this life, the less of life there is to live. And, the less of life I have to live, the more precious time becomes. 

 The still point of a turning world revolving on itself.