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Criss-crafted
Cross-crafted
Tied to the dock
Submerging somewhere
On land’s founding
Raft.
Clocking this day
Wayfaring lay
Calcitrant
Calibrating, clocking
Time inbounding
Knouted with NOT
Necessarily knotted
Needling niceties.
Cresting tidiness
Appertain.

Months, Days, Years

Months are predicted on the days, and the days define the year. What will I remember this year being about?

Stagnation, redefinition, lunging towards and away from dolour...that heartbreaking sorrow, cultivated by the relationship that I need to release.

So far and farther...

Confabulation. Not my style.
Substance, conversation.
It's about understanding...
Talking 'small talk'?
Quirky and vague. I cannot prattle.
Fabricate a memory? Too much work.



Trust. Trust? Dubiety is gone. I no longer have any doubt.
I need a new horizon, fresh stories, suprising escapades, amazing reverie, wonderful opportunies for mysterious and joyful, expansive dimensions...

Time

Wandering between present and future allows me to evaluate the past. Funny how the timeline in one's life seems saturated with one of those three segregations. Past/ present... Present/ future. Past/ Future... and all the degrees between. Or just past, present and future. Strange.

Sometimes, just living doesn't necessarily have a desgination, until after the moment, the afternoon, or day... week - month - year... decade and suddenly, in retrospect, time becomes that period of wonderful achievement, the day where I became aware... the year when I struggled, those happy occasions, my querulous youth, my disconcerting thirties...

Future imaginings can be just as indubitable and clear as any memory, sometimes more distinct than the present. Preceding, previous, current, prospective, erst-while, foregoing, forthwith, now... define time. Instantly, momentarily, sometime... Ever! Shedding these segregation of experience seems important to progress, learn, yet the need to define time is satisfying, to ignore the delineations, disruptive. I need the comparison to thrive.

Waiting

Time is involved.

I watch movements of people walking, one foot proceeds another. Some walk with purpose. Others saunter or stroll. Clothing strides with the legs, arms swung. I watch them go somewhere else.

I breath. I am quiet, patient, simply calm.

The wind winds itself slowly around objects. A butterfly seems to be heard. A plastic bag drifts across the road.

My watch marks the hours without ticking. I look at the dial sometimes. The numbers are small and hard to distinguish. When I look again, the hands of the timepiece have changed to a different position. The hour seems irrelevant.

When nothing is expected, time becomes inconsequential. Waiting stops when something happens. Time becomes important again. Time becomes precious. Time is valued.

I can induce activity. Sometimes I need to wait.