Time

The physicists like to calculate it. Solve it with equations and postulate theories. They build sundials with sticks and shadows. Then rewind to the smallest whisper that boomed into the big and beautiful, into everything.

The philosophers sketch it out. Drawing small infinities onto paper so they can keep track. It’s thread that can’t be unspooled, or maybe it’s nothing at all.

The writers fear it. Deadlines and dead ends meeting frequently, and flashbacks that just lose the plot. It’s something to dwell on and sulk about at 1 in the AM.

The self-isolating drown in it. Buckets upon buckets of it.

I used to lie awake; wishing that sleep was a time machine that travelled in both directions. Cascading clocks remind me that the present barely exists. It’s the smallest moment, but it can boom into everything.