Acrostic on Excerpt about Time

Nobody asked but …

I don’t think you have time to waste not writing

because you are afraid you won’t be good at it.
― Anne Lamott, from Bird by Bird

I recognize writing of human communication as the apex of

developing culture

originating and transmitting ideas

noting the incredible filligree of life

terrorizing the groundlings with the possibilities,

taming then the minds by observing the beauties

Heaven’s gates are opened,

illustrating the wonders,

nuances,

klangoring.

You are lifting the discourse

over the Milky Way and

under the seas of the Universe 

 having eventually to let go,

avenging the slights 

victory over banality, 

every thing must be left on the playing ground,

 the need to connect calls

in all times of your affect

mastering your contribution to the memorium

every morsel you can add to the feast

trading places in posterity,

ordering knowledge. 

Who are you to decide what will be remembered 

 assessing your place in history 

seeing how things will be.

Testing the flexibility of the future

evading facts to be, 

never looking at the likelihoods

of not slipping through the boards

to molder in the dust among the stars.

Why should we write or otherwise be a wordmonger?

Reality sets in. 

Ideally you can be lauded thoughout the Emperion,

taking a place of honor above Shakespeare or Lao Tsu

Instead, astronomically unlikely.

Never coming to light,

getting overlooked in the parade,

being a speck of stardust

except unique nevertheless,

celebrated by no one but essential to every other speck,

as you contributed to the lingua franca of it all.

Universality 

seals your fate 

even if  you were a crib death or an Octogenerian.

You left a lingualist microscopic mark

or erected a masterpiece which will bear a label

under its magnificence, but you

are in fear of being forgotten.

Relax and rest easy.

Everybody’s memory will expire soon,

as much as we may wish otherwise.

Fret not.

Responsibility dissolves in eternity, 

and dissipates in cosmic winds.

I see that to we humans it is temporary.  

Do tardigrades see our travails? 

Youth falls before the force of time,

only our most minute motions will persevere.

untold the story will remain unreadable.

Who will carry on?

Only no one. 

Nevertheless,

The dictates of physics guarantee that

bygones will exact accuracy

each time.

granting to each moment a certainty

overall 

outstanding in its place, but 

doing  well at its connectedness.

actually preserving truth for which there can be no substitute,

trust 

in

truth.

— Kilgore Forelle

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