Writing Time

I have written more than a million words on these pages, although I have not counted them all. I have anxiously, possibly too anxiously, tried not to write badly and to write sincerely. I usually write a day at a time and although I do not consciously try to write a log or diary of events inevitably my words, if read again several years after they were written, bring back to mind events which I had forgotten and times that now seem to be so long ago.

Looking back when you are old time seems to have made the past distant and obscure; looking forward when you are old time seems to be in a hurry to arrive.

When I was young time passed very slowly and the future was a dark obscure place. In my middle age I could not speculate on time because I did not have to time to think about the passage of time.

But whether I was young or old or in between I have always written under obsession or compulsion or simply egocentric desire. It is a legacy to those that choose to read it.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

 

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