Your Time.

This Time you have, that you seem so afraid of,
It's yours, you know.
All of it.
It wasn't made for anyone else.
It is all for you;
The whole, full swath.
You don't have to move off onto the side so more worthy,
More significant can pass.
You don't have to sneak in and pick at it then step aside
So others can dig in.
This Time is yours, to navigate in with broad sweeps and runs,
And to feast upon in your gleeful search for spice.


And this fear it triggers in you?
Make no mistake;
Time is not your enemy.
It is not the canvas for your failing.
It is not the scattered rush to take any shot.
This Time you have is gentle and tender,
If only you will stop gritting your teeth about it.
Soothe and slow for a second, for a minute, to embrace it,
And parse its quiet rolling in and off;
Time is opportunity bound in the fabric of your attention,
Guiding you ahead, always ahead to its eternity, and the
Discovery of your unavoidable success.
It is only when you tangle and contort in an effort to harness it,
When you have forgotten the centre and see only the edges;
The coming and going,
The ticking,
That you misconstrue it as adversary.


What benefit of Time to finish with you?
What gloating to fashion impossibilities and snares?
What triumph in our frustration?


Time's only flaw, only weakness, is its troubled tolerance of 
Stagnation and loop;
Thieves, both, in their illusion;
Lateral and meandering, slowing growth with the venom of
Pathos and self-doubt.
But again, time beckons, and perhaps, with an ache or a
Touchstone, urges you back to the fresh voyage;
Not with vengeance,
Not with judgement,
But with elation at the thrill of new steps.
And once you are back enroute,
Time will reveal, when you are ready,
Its offer of ecstasy;
Its invitation to raise your head and boldly maneuver, in
Your own Time, to an unbelievable paradigm
That you once considered for all but you.


The funny thing is,
You were never, ever, meant to be a spectator.


Not for a second.