Scratches on a piece of stone

To be aware of time is akin to counting grains of sand in the desert; a known futility. Yet as I sip from this vintage cup of moments and memories called my past; I dare say, a little more respect would not have killed me. Is not everyman’s time bestowed upon him in a shielded hourglass hidden from view? And because the weight never changes, do we not carelessly and foolishly live as if there is as much to come, as has gone before?

 

The game is done

The dust bunnies swayed back and forth clinging to the leg and footrest of my favoring green chair; simulating refugees tossed from a failed ocean crossing. Whatever plan of escape they had when they were spooked awake from behind the couch, they now had obviously forgotten. Just moments ago, they appeared so smug, holding their aces; shading their eyes; so as not to let me know their next move. But I knew they were lost, and not a one had a clue as to where they should head next.