A resistance to what has happened. A constant revisioning of how it should have been, to convince the mind it was not so. An unbreakable stone, a pillar of unfathomable authority: the past is the only thing that’s certain, even though it doesn’t exist.
Oh how we would like to change something that doesn’t matter, a passing of events on black and white.
Powerless, aimless, like a boat carried on by a river, just now realising it took a wrong turn. A pointless paddling against the current, failing to look ahead at the decisions yet to be made.
The realisation is paralysing, the physical realisation of the difinitiveness of time.
Why would we change it? To become someone else than we currently are? Who would we be if we could undo and redo indefinitely? Would we be ourselves, or someone else?
We so desparately reach for an unmovable object, again and again, even though we know, and deep inside we understand, there is no changing what has happened. Who is the one that reaches?
An inner conflict between two ‘usses’ inside. The one who knows and the one unwilling to surrender. The one that looks forward and the one desperately paddling toward the passing behind. The wise and the fool? Perhaps.
This is what it feels like, two entities steering the same boat. The one that knows and the one that still needs to accept it. A steerlessness that remains until the current carries the turn out of sight.
