What does anyone have that's really their own? The shoes on our feet and the clothes on our back? They are things that we use to hide the one thing we really do have: our nakedness. How funny that we are born without clothes, but buried in them, wearing our want, literally, on our sleeves.
More and more it seems like the only things we truly own are the things we think we do. Even our planet, the place we call home, isn't our own. We inhabit it for a brief time, living inside the most elaborate all-inclusive resort this side of the Milky Way. Yet we forget we are just guests here, walking on two legs toward the end of our lease. Most dinosaurs did it on four.
Are the hours ours? If so, most days we are lucky if we get eight of them for ourselves. No, I don't think the hours are ours either. They are on loan, like old, worn out bowling shoes.
We read in the dark, beside the dim light of our flickering bedside candle, burning for as long as the wax will allow. All the while, time, escaping upward as blackened smoke, swirls and dissolves, a trapeze whimsy swallowed by the air.
We all are; swallowed by the air.
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