Sol's Inner Vault

He knows. So, he can pretend. He knows how, and actually it's necessary nearly all the time. Because, almost everyone believes in it, time that is. Everyone thinks that it exists.  But, he knows it doesn't exist at all, anywhere. Time is the principal yardstick of relative perspective and distance, that's all; a finite tool. Space-time is the working fabric woven from historical scientific agreement, a measurable way to deduce our relative position in the constantly moving cosmos.   Observing, we see things aging in a most convincing manner of birth, decay, and demise. From the tiniest nano organisms to the most massive galactic structures, there are undeniable cycles of creation, destruction. But, he's not fooled, knowing it is illusory, time as the pragmatic invention of human thought, or, a Creator's shorthand math of comprehension for imagining vastly inconceivable distances, scales and magnitudes so great that they are constantly expanding even further out, all

Wind Haiku Remarkable how  a simple January  wind's thrashing hurry reminds us of what  else but everything that is uncontrollable beyond our own choice coming from all four corners gusts of chance and fate like the days blowing off one by one regardless of our mad clinging on to some daydream of immortality lost but then somehow found it's a myth guessing wind's inclination beyond what the trees tell us direction being a matter of perspective always relative like time-misted clouds unaffected by stray wind haunting sleep's damp cave remarkable how the moon gave permission to the wind to be wild beyond influence the convincing illusion we control our lives any more than wind decides its destination speed or duration which begs the question if not by our own design who is in control?

The resident voices in my head compete for attention. There is always a quarrel of perception going on, a constant figuring out that finds no final sum. True, it's a new year. But, there are no new secrets the wind carries, and no new wisdom from our sun or recycled rain. There is no answer that will satisfy every question, no keen solution to the angst of innocents, the hapless victims of change.  True, another new year, but that's simply our quant and arbitrary calendar tradition. The earth spins by its own schedules via powers unseen and many factors yet in mystery, how it's pinned so precisely in space by the fickle reign of gravity, the ultimate, unseen web cloaking every structure, every lofty daydream, every dared hope of humanity, tethered to the scourge of physical death, the giant risks taken despite the lightless abyss of failure and then extinction.  True, a new year, yet still the same onerous quagmire of countries fighting for more power, conflicts over greed