What is this rhythm?
Not in the sky above, if it is really sky.
Below then. Beneath our feet, in the bones of this world, supporting us, holding us up against the unreachable above.
We stand upon the surface of a dark heart. Each beat may take a second, an hour, a minute, a day, a year, a decade, a century, an aeon - we cannot know.
But it beats. and with each beat, time gathers itself. Coiled, sinuous, waiting.
We must move.
For with time, there always follows an ending.
Image source:
National Geographic
Now.
We begin.
On a day that sometimes isn’t, in a place that we could never reach, at a time that we can not measure. There are no clocks here, nor seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, decades, centuries, aeons - all of these things are so far away in the distance that they seem to be the same size; an army of indistinguishable motes on the horizon.
But there is a horizon. From where we stand, there is a plane that we can see and reach for but not grasp. Not yet.
And there is rhythm. Rhythm implies timing, and this is how we have come to notice that time is coming. Not here yet - still drifting on the horizon, still indistinguishable in its many pieces, but we think that it is coming closer.
