The rhythms that count - the rhythms of life, the rhythms of the spirit - are those that dance and course in life itself. The movement in gestation from conception to birth, the distole and systole of the hearts, the taking of each successive breath, the ebb and flow of tides in response to the pull of the moon and the sun, the wheeling of the seasons from one equinox or one solstice to another - these, not the eternally passing seconds registered on clocks and watches and not the days and months and years that the calendar imposes, define the time... we dwell within until our days ended
Rome fell silently to ruins. A New city rose in its place, and it was too erased by emptiness. Like phantom Giants, cities, kingdoms, and countries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness-- swallowed up in the black maw of the Infinite
For we die every day; oblivion thrives Not on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives, And our best yesterdays are now foul piles Of crumpled names, phone numbers and foxed files.
Time is long, death is patient, and the ghosts will always outlive the grieving.
A world without death would have no beauty, no yellow leaves in the autumn. It would be boring. There would be no change because change implies death. A world without death would be a frozen world. The fact is that we want to make the world better than God does.
The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true, that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle, though he missed the victory.
And thatβs when I realize that, at the end, weβd all wish for the same thing. Just a little more time.
In the silence of the woods it felt like I could hear the passage of time, of life passing by. One person leaves, another appears. A thought flits away and another takes its place. One image bids farewell and another one appears on the scene. As the days piled up, I wore out, too, and was remade. Nothing stayed still. And time was lost. Behind me, time became dead grains of sand, which one after another gave way and vanished. I just sat there in front of the hole, listening to the sound of time dying.
If Mr. Darwin were to be believed, then it was from the timeless dapple of the forest's canopy that men had first descended, and it was the forest's roots that drank men's bodies when they died, returned their vital salts back to the prehistoric treetops in gold elevator cages made of sap.
Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward? How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?
To a Young Nun This undemanding love that our staggered births have purchased for us β You in your generation, I in mine. I am not the one you are looking for. You are not the one I've stopped looking for. How sweetly time disposes of us as we go arm in arm over the Bridge of Details: Your turn to chop. My turn to cook. Your turn to die for love. My turn to resurrect.
You wrapped your wings against my soul, calmly cascaded tears into eternal waters, where I sat in solitude, waiting ephemerally, for those hours of lost comfort once again, how long ago did sleep become such an end?
Death, in the human perspective, is not a given, it must be achieved. It is a task, one which we take up actively, one which becomes the source of our activity and mastery. Man dies, that is nothing. But man is, starting from his death. He ties himself tight to his death with a tie of which he is the judge. He makes his death; he makes himself mortal and in this way gives himself the power of a maker and gives to what he makes its meaning and its truth. The decision to be without being is possibility itself: the possibility of death.
Many millions of people have lost their lives while trying to save a few minutes.
He held out his right hand in the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. Every few seconds a drop fell, dark, almost colourless in the dead light. Drop, drop, drop. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow... He had discovered Time and Death and God.
Perhaps I can never go back and say what I should have. Perhaps I can never look forward and tell myself I'll be something specific. Perhaps I can just let the hands of time and the hands of God create a path for me from the decisions I've made. Or, is it, that only death is absolute when God is the only thing in control of time?
Live a little or die a lot. The choice is hours.
Time says βLet there beβ every moment and instantly there is space and the radiance of each bright galaxy. And eyes beholding radiance. And the gnatsβ flickering dance. And the seasβ expanse. And death, and chance.
Voglio solo dire che mi manca quel periodo, quello in mezzo. Quando inizi ad accorgerti di quanto tempo è passato, ma non ti chiedi ancora quanto ne resta. Cioè quello in cui le persone a cui tieni non hanno iniziato a morire.
Time is always chipping away at our dreams. At the moment of death loss becomes complete.
