Prisoners of the Present
As ancient as the Mountain, born of the core and thence returning.
A Man stands eyes following the Sun looking at no thing another circle closing.
Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. A hundred years passed, the Man still stands. The Mountain does not notice.
Milky arrow of time above unchanged, a thousand years passed, sons of sons of sons forgotten. ”A moment,” says the Mountain noticing the Man.
A second. Now gone into the past, another from the future takes it’s place. None can reach the future nor live in the past, forever prisoners of the present. Even the Mountain.
The river of time carries all in a single direction. The unborn remain unconcerned, floating to and fro above the milky waters of time, smiling.
Another second passes, an electron dies a thousand deaths. The middle-aged behemoth of jagged rock, half a million years old, is milling about too quickly. The Planet does not notice.
We are all unborn. The prison of the present a product of imagination, sentenced by ourselves.
How would you live if you had a million years?
The Man on the Mountain blinks. Forgot him self for a moment of ten thousand years.
No prison. No prisoner.