The Weight of Time

The Weight of Time

Have you stopped and thought about yesterday, the day before, or are your thoughts focused only on the future, a tomorrow, the day after? Most of our lives are focused on not what has occurred, but what we hope will occur. It is part of the process of keeping from succumbing to the morbidity that surrounds a complacency we accept. Living in either the past or the future allows us to forgive ourselves for not living in the present. Why we do that?

Lying here on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold tile, my eyes searching my much-reduced world view, I find myself on the level of my friend who lives under the refrigerator.It is not here at the moment, I dislike thinking of my friend as an it, but I do not know its gender, nor would it make a difference. Where he came from or where he goes, I have no idea, nor do I wish to. I respect its privacy, and hope he affords me the same.

I hear the incessant ticking of the clock, the purr of the refrigerators motor, the branch scratching on the kitchen window glass; all sounds that were there I assume, I just can’t remember hearing them before; perhaps I had chosen not to, or they like most of my life I have relegated them to the non-important aspects of existence.So many things in life we refuse to acknowledge because they are not essential to guiding us through the next phase of a future we can only imagine, while disregarding the present in its favor.Infinity, although an unfathomable concept, is preferable to the mundane reality of the present, until the present becomes our future, morphing into unrealized dreams.

Flipping and electrical switch, finding no beneficial response, we look toward the source of our disenchantment to find the dark carcass of a bulb who has slipped into uselessness without so much as a goodbye. If we could have appreciated its last glimmer of expectancy, would it have made a difference? Probably not, as we have focused our attention on the voice emanating from the living room, where the words echo the actions of the past that attempt to encapsulate the meaning of the future, and fail at both as we stand in the dark, the message cascading over us un-noticed as our attention is directed toward the prospect of light.

I find myself rummaging through the drawer believing at some time in the past I placed the unused bulbs, so when the need arose I would know where they were located. I feel the pot holders as I push them to the side and my fingers walk across the drawer bottom until they feel the box, the smooth curved surface of my future light, and extract it from its hiding place to fulfill its destiny.

A flashlight would be helpful, but finding it would delay my mission, the clock continues to tick, the refrigerator to purr, but my friend is no longer absent, I can sense its presence.I feel my way cautiously to the pantry, pull the step stool from its resting place, and drag it below the now useless carcass of glass.

There is something about darkness, it provides the inescapable background that amplifies noise, fear, and possibility, if you can remain focused on the present and not allow yourself to become enamored with the accomplishments of an unfulfilled future while you attempt to free the new light from its protector. The cardboard wrapping falls to the floor, it can remain in the future until the present once again comes accompanied by the light of a yesterday, and the fulfillment of a future.

It is difficult at times to remember the incremental steps from the past to the future as the present is not, cannot be recognized, or the idealism that favors success will be trapped in our present, and we will remain in the dark. As I place my foot on the first step I hear the clock gears meshing in harmony; I don’t believe I’ve ever had that experience before; normally my future, after having disregarded the past, and refusing to remain mired in the present, does not recognize the faint sounds of ingenuity, as they interfere with the progress promised by a vision of a future that is more desirable than the mundane spirits we entertain in the present.

My next step fails to land where I assumed it would. I forget that I am holding the darkness at bay, with not the intangible glimpse of success, but with the inspiration of the past surpassing the present to realize it’s purpose in the future.

As the echoes of disbelief find me prone on the floor seeking salvation from the future by conjuring my recent memories of a past, I realize they have colluded to place me in the present where dilemmas live, untouched by the presence of either the past or future, as one has moved on while the other has yet to become a dream.

I have to ask myself if it is possible to move, return to a past I once believed I knew, but now am not sure I did? Will I be forced by a simple twist of fate to endure the pains of an everlasting present, when my mind is only content with beneficial glimpses of the past and never-ending stimulation of the future?

In the dim light of a street light penetrating the glass I see I am surrounded not only by shards of a past, and the revived hopes of a future, but a moonscape of reflected crevices and mounds, and the glowing red eyes of my friend who remains huddled in the warmth of the refrigerators hum. Tomorrows no longer matters as the future is no longer assured, and yesterday has no relevance when a present may no longer be an option. I feel somehow trapped in a present that I have ignored for…forever.

I look into the darkness of my present, but only hear the ticking of the clock, the purr of the refrigerator, and the admonishment of a voice that challenges my abilities. It is, or I should say has been challenging me to consider the fact that my abilities from a past do not necessarily move into the future, when disrupted by an aging present that has found its way onto my kitchen floor.

I find myself not concerned with the past, it has dissolved into distorted and fading memories. The future, a collaborations of hopes and dreams backed by no assurance that reality won’t render my plans undoable.So, I’m left with the present I’ve avoided acknowledging because it offers seemingly nothing but the reflected promises of a future, onto the realities of a moonscape, the ticking of a clock, and the hum of a motor, and of course my friend who looks at me with the pitying eyes of one who does not dream, but simply exists.