EQUINOX Equinox: twisted turning in the year, an inter-season twitching of a time-rent curtain trimmed, revealing half of what is gone, a hasty fraction of the life to come. Equinox: a singularity of space and time, when day and night are equal, a twice a year phenomenon that men and women cannot change; the heavens have it all in charge of gravity and orbitry and esoteric roots of a creation’s alchemy. And yet – equinox: a time for humans to intrude their brash agendas, still defying suns and moons and seasons in their greed to order life the way they will, believing even time can be subsumed into conspiracies their broken ingenuity fulfils. Equinox: when clocks are made to watch the sick distorted hour, lost from day’s full span to trick our working habits into longer tides of passage, made to keep the sun from rest and all who labour tied to treadmills of a toil that sweats their efforts into frets that vex the cogent mind into chicanery; yet time will not be mocked, and what the timepiece manifests can never change the marching of reality: no time is lost or gained against the beating of a person’s heart, the labour of his breath, the agony of birth in time-warped spring. Equinox: it comes again, as steady as a pulse, and our synthetic clocks are forced to fall into reverse and lumber back in repetitious fit to live one hour again, as if by this a change might come to pass. It is deceit! For if a loved one died within those fatal sixty minutes of the equinox, you may not hope the turning back will bring a resurrection, for it’s all a Lie, a hocus-pocus of deception played by science and mechanics and a greed-corrupted governance. Equinox: yes! The switch that measures out the length of days but not the length of time. The nights of winter taper to a tighter fit upon the stretched-out sun-filled hours of spring and summer till a six-month circling brings the planet’s orbit tilting back to favouring the night, and with it comes the dark and icy frost, the stiffened joints, the shivering cold of creatures forced to wait, again, a half a year of clocks’ pretence at prudence. Equinox: a turnstile at the quarters of the year, no one given entry but by change of clocks, as if conceit and propaganda measure time. Don’t think to trust the hour hand, but rather trust your unmistaken ears that hear the cock crow when it’s veritably dawn, and trust the tides that come and go to rhythms set beyond the scope of instruments of time. For time is unconcerned by interference from our feeble statutes. Time is servant to a different Lord.
Posted on: Mon, 03 Feb 2014 13:56:04 +0000
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