"Changing seasons, contrasting terrains,
Accumulating dust and grime,
tarnishing the beauty of newness, lost with passing time.
Time is the ultimate witness;
The facilitator of change and growth,
destruction, loss, gain, and woes.
Unstoppable with power unparalleled,
the moving hands of the clock tick away.
The white purity of something new
fades and yellows, as the pages age.
The onslaught of time alas, is all that remains.
Fragments that lie obliterated in abandon,
lie incomplete in their loneliness,
The newness that life brings with the passage of time awaits,
Alas, what's left behind prevails, forgotten.
-Elegiac_Damsel
____________
8th November
Kolkata, The City of Joy
Third person's point of view:
Time is an eternally mighty warrior. Its mortality is defined by its immortality; as the seconds pass, the moments elapse, disappearing as the seconds pass, and the infinite loop called time continues into a vague eternity. In Shakespeare's words, "Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; but you shall shine brighter in these contents than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time." In this excerpt from the opening lines of Shakespeare's Sonnet 55, time has been compared to a prostitute, someone who is considered to be unfaithful to just one person and is often unstable in any relationship. Time's unfaithful nature and destiny; time's destructive property; time's wrath and the onslaught that can destroy with its soft kiss and deceptive caress.
Age and decay are characteristics of change induced by the passage of time. Just as a child grows up gradually, learning how to wobble and crawl, walk, grumble, cry, and eventually talk, the young hands that reflect the strength and enthusiasm of youth grow shrivelled with time, the smoothness of skin giving way to wrinkles, raised scars, and visible veins.
Time is a mystery that is seldom understood and often misunderstood. It can sway you with its fascinating immortality in a mortal moment, purportedly pausing for a split second, only in our mind.
A book is an apt representation of life. The contents of the pages bound together by one spine resemble the different moments in one's life, starting from birth to death, gradually into oblivion. The story is read, breathed, and lived; one ponders, mulling over the last few pages; shoving it to the back of a bookcase until dust gradually accumulates; the new snow-white pages with black typed letters that speak of another life in the parallel universe known as as imagination yellow with time. The yellowing pages fall victim to the cruel onslaught of time, till destiny carries them away, breaking the spine that holds the pages together, squandering each page, the story littering the yellowing pages, destined to be forgotten.
Just as the pages evolve and age, so do humans, absorbing the onslaught of time on their bodies, going from birth to infancy to childhood and adolescence, eventually leading to adulthood and inevitably paving the way to death. With time, thoughts, ideologies, concerns, priorities, roles, and responsibilities keep changing, facilitating the evolution of our personalities, shaping us as individuals, and adapting to the changes in the world around us.
YOU ARE READING
Mrinalini♦
General FictionThe households in India have been run by women primarily, following the centuries old tradition. From taking care of the child's breakfast to ensuring that the mother in-law's morning cup of tea is served on time, it is always the woman of the house...
