The hands that spin

Another week of running around until we run out of road, only to be swept off, landing in another city.

It has been exactly a month since I left to work/travel in another State, a month since I joined the writing rounds, a month since I hopped on that black helicopter with open doors, and the feeling still remains: I am but a leaf, swirling here and about, riding the wind.

And yet, in exactly a month, I’ll be counting days until I need to find a new job. In a month, it will only be days until our fates are decided: Do we stay or do we go?

What are we really doing here that is right, that is wrong? They say, only Time can tell. They say that Time is the one true god. That Time heals all wounds. That it will pass us by, and we won’t even notice because we are so full with our bliss. That time does not wait for us, that Time is not in our hands — then where is it? How are we always lost in it?

We are spun and circling about its hands, being played by it, and we are lost in its beat and tempo. We keep running until we run out of road, riding the winds, that only it can tell where it will land us.

Who are we to ask for all things to stop for our own?


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