It Tics
It tics faster than its every slowly been before. Were it to ever have existed in a non advent frame of mind. Were the words to elaborate such a concept proves only that we succumb to a fate that can not be read but yet understood.
It tics ever so slowly as fast as it ever could leading to a finality with an end that leads only to a beginning. One foot treads forward reaching for it while the other digs into the past in fear of the surrealism of the unknown. Is this the Present?
It tics neither slow nor fast as it ever will. The heart pumping in a similar rhythm slowed and rushed to the events that have played out and have not. Both existing and not existing in parallels to a fictional truth.
It tics while we wait and while we venture. Both feet planted in solitude while the hands dig away grapsing at the entrails of an unseeable vision that is seen when both moving and unmoving. Is it Real?
It tics nonetheless when it does not tic though it should. A pain that can be felt and unfelt, fluttering of wings where one moment you transcend into the sky and the next you are fighting gravity to reach such a state. What of the in between states?
It tics with ever keystroke, it tics with every swipe of the pen. It tics through seals, and vows now reminisce. What is a promise to this single tic when another tic says it does not exist. If you wait or continue it surely does not matter.
It tics when you live between the then and now. A fluctuation of the hearts eye and the minds ear. Neither playing advocate to the other, both blind and deaf to a cause long forgotten.
It still tics whether we force it to stop or start. The control we seek are the chains of enslavement beholden to an ideal that does not exist. Living for oneself is as selfish as living for another.
It tics in the past present and future. It exist now and of course it exist never. Pray thee no mind should I break such a shackle that does not exist from my mind. I wish to free be of it. This Tic of time and waiting.
