The swallows fly away until they return. The willows wither until they flourish in the beauty of nature in the spring. Each blossom rots until they bloom yet again. But, smart man, tell me, why does our time feel like it is gone, never to return. Is it because some thief has robbed us? Who? Where has it been hidden? Or has it run away on its own?
I don’t know how many days I have been given, but my hand is indeed void of any accomplishment and success. I silently count, and eight thousand days have slipped away. Like a water drop at the tip of a needle, falling into the sea, my life is worthless in the grand scheme of the universe. I sweat with fear and cry at my incompetence.
As my hesitation leaves, it also returns; a median of the two, does such a hesitation exist? As the sun rises, the morning comes, and I wake. The beams of light pierce through my window. As if it had legs, the sun creeps slowly across my room as I mindlessly spin along. As I wash my hands, it feels as if the very threads time and space are being wasted as it washes into the drain. As I eat my bowl of white rice, the grains of time fall through the hourglass, just as the grains of rice fall through my stomach. I watch silently, as the sandcastle of time erodes into the ocean of history. When I investigate the rushing of time, I stick out my hand in an attempt to block the exit. As I lie on my bed, when the sky turns into chocolate, as if it were the sheep I was counting, time swiftly leaps over my body, and makes its exit via the legs of the throne that is me. When the day has been beheaded by executioner of the night, I say goodbye to the head as it rolls over the hill; however, like a hydra, the day’s head will come again, and shine again another day.
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