Sand: the universal increment used in the classification of time gone by; years melted away; eras scattered in the wind; epochs swallowed by the changing oceans. History is not a concept when compared with the sands of time, because history is a classification; an archive of truths and falsehoods written by the victorious – the holy leaders of change and truth. The sands, however, are malleable; they shift and erase, reform and grow, lighten and darken, all in accordance with the flow of the universe. Things are as they will be, they can change or they can remain constant. Wherever the path ends, even if altered by free will, is the true end. History denies these simple facts – history is a concrete assertion of the whenwhowhywhatandhow. Even god suffers from the attention paid to history, and the manipulation of it. His obsession is more resolute, having magnified during millennia of isolation. It is a defense mechanism, no doubt, his obsession with remembering and stringing a web of history. A hundred passing suns rising and sinking from season to season, its light being swallowed by a moon that eats itself then rejuvenates, lines the walkway to the sands of time: six hundred thousand cycles in two thousand years. But who keeps count? Grab a coarse handful and watch it fall between the cracks, they have all been doing it. God was loosing sleep. He faked slumber by closing his eyes, but laid still, awake, judging the night, scrutinizing its sounds for danger, hypnotized by a restlessness imposed by the slit in the sky. The days were at their shortest and the nights were longer than their longest. Are we there yet?
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