Skipping the Surface of Time

Every day, a story written, memories added to life's tapestry; time marches ever onwards, it flows in one direction. To return, to travel back, a supposed impossibility.

 

The world moves on and so do us all... eventually. Time it ebbs and flows, carrying everything caught in its wake forward, sweeping from mountain to sea; each of us, following paths unknown, carving a way forth. Its current too strong to fight against but perception is a fickle thing.

 

Time leaves its marks, in the dust that gathers along the way, remains of the roads; items and relics collected along daily travels, remnants of history made physical. To look upon them, interact, as a slingshot to a stone, returns collector to times gone by, if only for a moment. Such manipulation of forces temporal relies on mere relation. The stronger such feelings, the greater the pull; nostalgia tangible.

 

A scent, a place, a shirt, a face; a paradoxical power they hold. The greater the event that imbued them such, the harder it struggles to let go. The memory, it thrives, it lives on these things, despite the collector's wishes; stowaways on the tides of time, reminders of days since passed. Moments of life, given life their own, stepping stones to the past; linger not in yesterday's embrace, lest you be caught by time's waves.

 

These things, these collected moments, artefacts sanctified and cursed; potency enhanced by the memories from which their power derives. Symbiosis. Shocks to the system, trauma endured, seeds solidified to pearls. Bitter pills, waystones along the banks, measure the progress made; no matter the distance, while they remain, the past only a stones throw away.

 

Just as with all, which claims to be alive, a limited span is given; with repeated use, new mem'ries form and the old fades to the new. Reclamation takes effort, fighting the force of waves and elastic the same; give enough time, rubber degrades, continue time's flow once again.