Time

The Poet
Farther from me, o hour, you grow.
Your wingbeat wounds me upon its way.
What would I do with my lips, though?
With my night? With my day?

I have no beloved, no shelter,
No homestead at which to be.
All things I lavish my self on
Grow rich and lavish me.

Rilke, the master poet of 20th century Modernism, was born in Prague. His poetry expresses the inexpressible within us. He hand dips early 20th century thought in a bowl of questions, and molds it into a timeless mixture. His words are tumbled and then dried in a vat of emotions and a fragile reality emerges.

Rilke understands time for what it is. Time frames experiences. Time blends night and day into hours, and we wrapped those hours lavishly around our minds and count them. Our beliefs and perceptions slip through the invisible halls of time and they form our experiences.

The art of time is etched in our conscious mind, and we play with it in our unconscious. We become what we believe and blame time for spending the hours to dress itself in minutes. Our reality floats through the cracks of consciousness and we constantly stuff it into a personal memory capsule.

Our capsule accents our conscious mind with the glow of time. The glow grows rich in our capsule, but we berate it for being so limited. But, time is not the culprit. Our beliefs about it creates the limits.