by Eirene Gentle
Time used to shrug it off. The defamation, bargaining and fear but it’s sick of the lies. Time doesn’t march or stand still. It hasn’t stopped, not even once. It’s had enough of blame. Illnesses aren’t its work but people’s own decisions or luck or who knows what, Time isn’t a seer, it’s just not at fault. Time isn’t wasted and can’t be spent. It’s always money with humans, money, money, money which is never Time, no matter how much people say it. Which is another thing, Time doesn’t heal. Not anything, ever. It’s not interested in your problems. Or you. Time isn’t God, or even god. It would leave all humans in a vat of tar to stop them crawling all over it, chopping it into seconds, minutes, millennia, whatever, but Time doesn’t have power, or tar, or vats. It possesses nothing and doesn’t want to. Time can’t be served. It has no say in your confinement. Or freedom. It won’t go back, not with serums or cells, cold-freezing or plasma. Time has no sense of direction and barely made it to the complaints office. There was a long line and it had to take a number. “It’ll be a while," they said, right to Time’s face.
Eirene Gentle writes, mostly little, usually from Toronto, Canada. BlueSky: @eireneeleni.bsky.social
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