What am I but a function of time?
Graphed over a pie chart.
Yesterday was great. If I could investigate the surface level things in my life, I wouldn’t have much to write about. Or would I? How much is surface, anyway, and who determines that. What is structure. What is form. What is style.
To write with style, to write at all, takes gumption. Takes time.
Time.
I’m still racing against time, and I don’t know where it will end. I mean, obviously, I do.
In time, we’ll all be in our graves, listening to our loved ones walk away.
Time, if we’re lucky, time.
It’s been a hot minute since I posted anything on social media. That’s a big step. I can’t stand the place. It drives me. Quite. Up. The. Wall.
Every/\Time.
Refrain from repeating yourself in writing, young writer, and time will be kind.
To you, Allah, I dedicate my time.
To be one with time, in the flow of it, watching the flux, come in and out, like the shore,
Dictated by the tides, by the moon’s shifting presence in the sky.
In Time. Time.
Tie. Am.
I’m trying not to think too much about what any of this means. It’s all just a matter of keeping moving forward, in time, with time, against my back, like the wind, pushing.
Time. Keeps me ticking and sometimes I like to listen to the tick of my watch as I press it close to my ear, as my forehead is pressed close to the ground, near, Allah is near, nearer than my jugular vein, and I know that with time, time, I’ll have to face my Creator again.
In time. Outside of time. Allah exists outside our comprehension, yet He is still near. Ever subtle, He is near.
I try not to worry about time, because that leads to regret, and regret leads to the devil taking control of my thoughts. Your thoughts. Our thoughts. We’re all one and the same, in many ways, separated by
Time.
Mohamed Time.
That’s how I saved the name of one of my peers from the Umrah trip in my phone. I called him last name Time because we seemed to be on the same schedule. Same clock. Same time.
I’d leave the hotel room and wander around Mecca. I’d loiter near the Ka’bah, worshipping, listening, reflecting, praying. Enjoying that moment in time. And I’d become tired, so tired, and I’d go back to the hotel room, walking slowly, taking my
Time.
And I’d get there at the same time as Mohamed Time. Same exact time, or a few minutes before or after. And it was weird, because we understood each other without needing to explain the endings of sentences, even though he was much younger than me, is still much younger than me, because that’s how Time works – our lives are just fragments of time, trapped, trying to find a way out. But there’s only one way out, and it involves the passage of
Time.
Death waits for us all, and in time, all that’ll be left is just a bag of bones. Time. Dust. Time.
Time.
Take a deep breath and let it slip. A broken clock face brings some of us peace – the illusion that we’ve tricked
Time
into complying. But we don’t trick time. We are tricked.
And Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Time.
T.
-
m.
e.