Not 100% sure. Nope. I have no idea.

I don’t have a clue.

Stupid, actually.

It makes no senses why I feel this way, but I do. It’s just where I am right now. Today.

I’m sitting in my big, yellow chair watching basketball. It rained this morning and brought a boat-load of cold air in to middle Tennessee. The way the burning red leaves glowed off the post-rain sun made even the ugliest streets in Murfreesboro look Victorian.

That all happened today. I’ve seen it before.

———–

Maybe I have a sneaky perspective on time. Maybe I don’t think we live on a linear calendar even though I would say we do if I were pressed.

I guess I think that every day matters. I guess I think I’ll never be here again. But then again, I feel like I’ve been here before. Like I’ve seen this day, and felt this way, and thought these thoughts, and ate this supper before.

I think I may be infected with that cyclical view of time. The one that says summer’s coming back. That wars will end and begin again. That God will be mad again. That I’ll be back.

Or maybe it’s Yeats’s gyre. Maybe those cyclical views are separate. And maybe they’re heading toward each other like the ship and the iceberg and we’re all waiting on the convergence of the twain. Maybe Hardy was a prophet.

Maybe sentence fragments can compose the major percentage of a note and be just fine because the author is doing it on purpose.

And maybe I have no clue what I think or what I say if I have to say it outright.

Does it all have to sleep beneath layers of metaphor?

Will allegory really help you understand what you might not have if I’d just told you? Or do you and I believe enough in our ability to figure it out right now?

——

I read John Maxwell’s Today Matters not too long ago. It made total sense. We all think it’s going to get better, but not many of us are doing anything about it today.

I want to retire. I want to visit the world. I want to pay this or that off. I want to be the best at what I do. But what have I done today to make that happen?

If the only thing between this year and ten years from now is a lump sum of todays, what makes me think I’ll be where I want in ten years if every today holds nothing that will get me there, if every today is void of some action or movement that will ameliorate the journey to the goal?

Get it?

I need to figure out a way to live on purpose. To stop wasting the units that make up the units that make up the units that measure the distance between here and there.

——–

So how does that mesh with time?

Good call.

If I feel like I’ve been here before, if I have this undercurrent that flows with high tide strength just beneath my vascular system, if I have a sub-conscious says “I’ve been here before,” then my actions can’t be that worried about today, about right now.

I’ve been here before.

I’m here today.

I’ll be here again.

“Don’t worry about it,” says the calm voice I’ve heard before, “you’ll be here again, you’ll have another shot.” I heard it say that very thing—–before.

But I won’t. Not really. I mean, I can start today if I want, but I can never start yesterday.

I can never start yesterday.

I can never start yesterday.

That’s the key. That’s the reason I know I exist on a line and not on a circle or a gyre.

It will only happen today. There was a yesterday. There will NEVER be a tomorrow (I’ve been told about that day my whole life and I’ve never been there and I’ve never seen it).

It’s got to be done today.

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