Familiar Hands

By: Oli Ray

Time’s hands are surprisingly familiar for all the change they bring. Their grasp is a feeling we all know and yet always seem to forget until they put us a down.

We’re never where we are left for long, but the crevasses in the palms of Time are paths we all tread unknowingly, ignorant that the path we chose on a whim were carved into the skin of Time long before we set foot on that dirt.

I always convince myself that somehow I can surprise Time, that I can somehow outrun it and it often leaves me late to a friend’s house or early to a funeral.

When I’m creating I like to turn the clocks in my room to the wall, my phone lost in the sheets of my duvet and my alarm clock unplugged even though that means I’ll have to reset it.

I do this because I like to think some things are too sacred to allow Time’s fingers to touch; however ancient the digits may be something feels wrong in allowing such a force to change the one thing that may outlive me. Maybe it’s because time is the one thing that can take away my creations, allow them to fade into their natural oblivion or rush their ever shifting perfection.

I sometimes think Time is jealous of the art we make, it’s the one thing Time has trouble wiping away. Shakespeare died centuries ago and yet his name so common in today’s conversations and something tells me that irks Time.

Not to compare myself to a Shakespeare, I’m nowhere near that kind of magnitude. But aren’t all our words all as valuable as that name? Aren’t our hands the same shape and shouldn’t what we create be held with such esteem?

We are mortal and insignificant, our bodies are wasting away right now as Time takes what is rightfully his, but our words are like demigods, our creations Gods themselves and those creations that top the others Titans of this world.

Humans have just one universal language, we have just one thing in common that has stood the test of Time, and it baffles Him to no end.

We have stories. Stories of days and people past, stories of now and stories of what’s to come. No one remembers the author’s name; we remember how their words made us feel, we remember the characters and the faces we gave them, we remember what they went through, and we remember how much they meant to us.

We remember them so well we pass them on, and on, and on, and on until there is no one left to tell except one.

The only one who will outlive us mortals, but cannot outrun our stories.