The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of Time (6|1)

(№6.1)

Time doesn't run nor does it move.

It also wouldn't do such things in a linear manner, much disagreeing with famous and incredibly humane believes, because instantly, if you thought to find ancient crusted relics, tales hit in stone in languages older than the discovery of the hidden side of the moon - the dark side lying always in shadows, never to be reached by the warm engulfing rays of ​the sun, shining hotter than a million ovens - you will be deceived for most of them have been eradicated, either by gullible, thick people living in the past time and destroying all things their brains cannot further comprehend on a more metaphorical, immaterial, spiritual plane, for they are mindless brutes who could not be intrigued by art, poetry, and music, the holy trinity of all honourable arts, only to be enjoyed and have taken a part in by those, who are not forced to be mortified by the emerging of sabre-toothed tigers from any rumbling, growling bush, skewering the humans with their great tusks. For only those can find happiness and fulfilment in art who are not afraid to be diminished any second, minding not exclusively survival, yet can appreciate life in its much richer, more vibrant quality.

Time apparently also destroys things, when really it's the environment, such as the sun, who had already been mentioned now twice in this ballad, oxygen perhaps the usual culprit or also water who had borne many issues for historic sympathisers of facsimile, desperately seeking to reconstruct the miserable lives their ancestors had to endure, had to be probed and probated, only to produce the following generations who out of my experience only mock their forthbringers by having their death and suffering once more exposed, letting them die a second time, disgracing their names in a myriad of unconventional ways along the verses. Some things should rest in peace and be forgotten, like an inept lampshade put aside in the attic prior to its death be found in a dumpster.

However, that's not even to be objected or asserting the contrary, only to make another point stead and firm to prove it;

Time doesn't do all or one of these things mentioned above, because it doesn't exist.

It's not a nature given constant, created at the mighty all-powerful uprising of everything, nor had the most divine their upper hand in power play for once, but it's simply a general way to measure how many sand grains can pass the elongated, narrow pathway of an hourglass and how many horses you can slaughter and how many plowings you can operate on a field of corn, before the grains had yet all connected with the glass bottom and you were to turn it once more, time running out before your mere eyes.

Some Time can also have been passed as you pridefully and matter-of-factly drove a neat and narrow pole into the sandy dry soil of your deserted home floor and watched the shadow of the sun travel at lengthy in a nearly three-quarter circle of the day, fascinated by the mere simplicity and your ability to count two and two together.

You claim now you can measure the given time by reading where the shadow of the cane is now on the crude scale, which you clumsily traced in the very compromising floor and are now expecting esteem and a shower of gold on your burned head from all the people around you though which will not understand your affect.

Science needs to measure the length of how long something does take Time to sprout and cultivate, no offence against that, but in other sense, Time is also not real.

Or at least not the apparent and all-obvious ellipse of time moving is all too clear and fixed as one might reckon.

It comes and goes in waves, unbound by the laws of the moon and definitely of no man binding its strings in certainty, as the waves are not made of water but are inexistent, a metaphor for reducing omni-complexity. And even the omnipresent gods, which experience it much differently than common mankind, are helpless.