Time.

The one journey we cannot truly see. We cannot see ahead. We cannot see behind us on its path.

It cannot be stopped.

And yet we are on its plain. At a constant speed.

Hurtling through the Universe. Without care or consideration for anything and anyone.

It goes.

It continues.

With pompous arrogance.

Leaving the conscious in turmoil. Desperate for it to increase in speed. Desperate at times for its deceleration.

And yet there can be no such thing. For it would be akin to calling one “two” or black “blue”. An impossibility.

We conscious souls are trapped. Not within our skin. Not within the casing of our senses.

But by the dimensional track upon which we travel.

The dimension of time.

Woe is us.

At the base of my spine, where my tail would begin were I a primate. Just above the buttocks, lies a great source of pain and discomfort. Stabbing down the right hip, like hot foil between two vertebrae continuing into the fibrous muscles and tightened tendons.

The pain seeps into the left hip, ever overshadowed by the intensity of that on the right.

My perception cannot make it out to be muscular, nervous, perhaps even skeletal. If it were only a psychological illusion.

Alas it is overwhelmingly real to my existence.

But it is what cements me into the reality of this existence. And the privilege of sensation is something I am supremely grateful for, thus, complaining feels unnecessarily selfish.

What does it mean to feel?

To exist.

To be.

What?

The sensation of existence. Could that be who we inherently are?

Creatures of experience. Engineered to receive the stimuli of the Universe in a way that paints an endless cacophonous symphony transcending the elements?

Perhaps.

And then we sleep.

Rest. For another day; when the soul’s conscious canvas is awakened to awareness, able to receive the next array of stimuli that exist solely to be experienced? Experienced by a human soul.

John David

A writer philosophizing about the human condition.

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