Marks of Time

A warm mid-October breeze blows. Our week of fall weather is pretty much is gone. The sweaters and long pants we pulled out are once again put away. Still conversation quietly turns to the holidays, of loved ones missed, and loved ones gone. I found myself a little shade in this 85° weather, longing for a more traditional fall, which I haven’t seen in years. My arms covered are by the marks of time; my face wrinkled from the burdens of life. 

I’m not really sure where I’m going with any of this. I mean I’ve written enough stupid to last a lifetime. But for me, to quit writing would be like trying to stop breathing. I try and not think too highly of myself. Nor do I overthink my craft or my position in life. I am just who I am. A broken man that spent most of my life looking for a rainbow that never really existed. Broad strokes of a pen cannot change one’s station. But they can sure give you some peace of mind and a little perspective. 
​
So I sit here as time rows on. Not really fretting over the seasons. Or any of the holidays that just happen to come by. I cherish my moments of privacy, while still longing for truer connection. For you can still be alone, even when surrounded by need. To have and hold love is a rare thing. To know love and not being able to reach it is just tragic. But the marks of time eventually catch up with us all. Scaring our bodies and our souls with moments of regret. But the secret to it all is to listen, recognize, and forgive. For time marches on.