The timer starts now.
Another wonderful but busy day. I thought of the Minoans, whose love of bulls and fortress walls formed the substrate of the mysterious other in Greek consciousness. I thought of dolma, and how its Greek spelling (ντολμάδες) doesn't start wtih a delta.
And now, instead of writing, I'm watching my time passing on the clock. Now the clock is at 2:30. My post's midlife crisis — and suddenly, a thread of a message becomes clear:
It's curious that we make the most of our time only when we realize how little of it we have. There is no dress rehearsal. There is no inciting event, no meet-cute, to know that your story has started. Your story started long ago, and you have been living it since the day you were born.
A tad more than a minute left. What can I say to tie this piece together in a neat little bow? Like life itself, it meanders, jumps, and pauses.
But even with less than a minute left, the thread of something still lies here. This moment is all you have. What will you do with it to move into something better? What will you do with this precious moment of life? And as the timer counts down ever further (10, 9, ...), what can you do to make it count?