Time is such a waste

Incorrigible and nasty is the Demon named "Time".

Mathematical ingenuity notwithstanding, Time is a Quixotic but devoted servant of Chance and Change.

For sure it moves at the consistent pace of precise constancy. Yet it shimmers and moves and stutters and frobbles about with our senses of it. It plays with our heads and messes with our hearts. It forces us to succumb to our own inevitable need for impatience.

Is Time immutable? Of course it would smirk and imply it most certainly was, is, will be.

But our shifting cellular inclinations for the possible, perceived and potential morph Time into more chaotic measures.

Inessential and unavailable, Time's rule is an over-rated media - like long winding Presidential Elections and Security Council deliberations on Congolese shenanigans.

I would not have Time if I did not want it. I would be perfectly poised within this centre never wavering from instantaneous bliss of the here and now.

And even in there, Time still plays its merry brand of necessity to language and desire. There is no "here and now" without it. There is not any centre of the self without the direction Time moves us to.

Ubiquitous and evil, the demon Time destroys pragmatic hope and enlivens useless fantasy, numbs pleasure of the essence of being and builds desire toward possible promises for what may come. And never does.

Do not march to the beat of Time. You cannot compete with its cloying intransigence. Regulated flow is best when forgotten.