The incipient croak

The rain season sweeps away the old, welcoming in the new, and giving a chance of redemption for that mini spring bop. New words and new sound and new faces and fresh beginnings; one can only hope to reassess their sense of selves in the magic of the moment. But insofar as time is concerned, there is no such thing. This indiscriminate lack of regard is typical of a more metaphysical viewpoint. It is yet unfortunate that we have yet to fundamentally understand the true essence of time and how it persists; how it remains to be; how to explain it in a less vague sense other than the tenses of past, present, and future. Let it be said that the idea of time itself is relative. From our perspective, here on this planet, with a congruent sense of sameness, regardless of location, time is a linear path going forward with no reprieve at all whatsoever, and if understanding the what and how of time is, there is no doubt one can attribute a form of deliverance unto the mystery in and of itself, and it shudders to think one can imagine a sense of our future embodiments as a collective. There is no telling what can be, only that it will be.