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March 10, 2024

Imploring Chronos, the god of time

I dillydally, I have fun, I ramble on. I often feel like I’m writing as if I were taking my final breaths; as if I want to write everything before departing, dry up my well of nicely written sentences and then escape. The flesh of words has always been my motherland, where reality is born, where, this morning, my worn fingers try to sow torn hopes together; a life story that’s been patched a thousand times.

I keep going and plead with Chronos, the god of passing hours. From the depths of time, will this son of Zeus answer me? I bow and beg all the divine beings of the Pantheon. My black inked lines form a long appeal, a prayer for my heart parched for love.

Once I wanted to love and had to cross over the wailing wall with its barbed wire. I searched for a bit of affection in my own way. Thank heavens, I was blessed with the drive to push straight ahead in my studies and business. It seems heaven has watched over me so I never feel alone on earth. A few angels unfailingly unfurl a flying carpet, an eagle throws a few feathers my way and I write my truth.

I’m glad to leave the kingdom of dreams. I love the rosy face of dawn. In my large kitchen, I count my blessings. I’m amazed. How many days do I have left to hastily paint my last desires? I kneel and pray for the great reaper to forget me, not take me. My heart slides between the lines, my ardour arranges the rhymes.

I dillydally, I have fun, I imagine my outrageously withered body swimming in the ocean. Who will take it to the paradisiacal shore of eternity? A whale could snack on my flesh. I tremble and worry that it may also swallow my heart. Please throw me in the earth as pittance, hide my words in the veins of streams!

My fingers shiver, but they charge into these blissful mornings of writing. They throw back the hands of time as they see fit. They use the hours like free minutes in a parking meter. In a big bowl, time mixes the chapters of my busy life.

When I turn on my tablet, a spray of sparks shoots from a half-complete sentence. It’s a trick I use so I never lose the trail of a story I started the day before. And so this morning, I hurry to describe the last volcanic flows of my heart. A fiery cloud of desire dries up the black ink of my words. I imagine leaving this world without anything holding me back – no regrets, no cadaver and no notepads.

I ponder in front of the glowing page. This morning like every morning, my mute fingers fold and unfold dozens of drafts. They strikethrough, erase and then tap and tap away until emptying the dawn of all its waking dreams.

Without fail, new sentences hover and fly between the clouds. They touch the peaks of mountains, brush against eagles, knock at the doors of angels and ask the heavens’ blessing. When will I be able to fly away? The globe turns and turns, but life can only ever be lived once.