The footsteps ring true on the concrete pavements of Taipei, as fire fills the sky with awe and wonder. The hearts of a nation and the world, fixated upon the ephemeral sparks of hope, bursting in colour, fading into the fog. You could hear their voices – almost desperate – uniting as one, wishing for a future better than the last. Then you realize that your voice soars with them, your heart resonates, fixated upon the smouldering embers of their dreams, painting the sky with the finesse of a grandmaster.
When time is short, and the seconds fade into oblivion – when beyond all possibility, you lose the seemingly infallible ability to watch the clock twirl in relentless silence. The flow is merciless. You are caught in the flow. The moment will arrive. You realize this, as dread fills your heart, even as you attempt to regain consciousness. The clock is stared down and willed to slow it’s pace. The outcome was never in question.
How do you capture the present? Grab it with your bare hands and never let go? How do you remember every detail? How do you freeze a phase in time, absorb every sense, and selfishly call the moment your own?
As the crowds trudge back to their inevitable existences, where abundance is served and belts are tightened; as faces lose the glow that has persisted through a seemingly impregnable winter, one wonders.
One wonders if again, the impending future would truly be surpass the last, but one can only safely say, that when one cycle of time is over – we’d all be wishing, again, for a future better than the last.
Date
The footsteps ring true on the concrete pavements of Taipei, as fire fills the sky with awe and wonder. The hearts of a nation and the world, fixated upon the ephemeral sparks of hope, bursting in colour, fading into the fog. You could hear their voices – almost desperate – uniting as one, wishing for a future better than the last. Then you realize that your voice soars with them, your heart resonates, fixated upon the smouldering embers of their dreams, painting the sky with the finesse of a grandmaster.
When time is short, and the seconds fade into oblivion – when beyond all possibility, you lose the seemingly infallible ability to watch the clock twirl in relentless silence. The flow is merciless. You are caught in the flow. The moment will arrive. You realize this, as dread fills your heart, even as you attempt to regain consciousness. The clock is stared down and willed to slow it’s pace. The outcome was never in question.
How do you capture the present? Grab it with your bare hands and never let go? How do you remember every detail? How do you freeze a phase in time, absorb every sense, and selfishly call the moment your own?
As the crowds trudge back to their inevitable existences, where abundance is served and belts are tightened; as faces lose the glow that has persisted through a seemingly impregnable winter, one wonders.
One wonders if again, the impending future would truly be surpass the last, but one can only safely say, that when one cycle of time is over – we’d all be wishing, again, for a future better than the last.
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