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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short story about the beauty of time

Submitted: February 20, 2018

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Submitted: February 20, 2018



"Time flows, on and on and on." the old man said. "Just like this stream." He pointed toward a small, soft stream. "But" he continued, "other than time, this stream can be stopped." As he said so, he threw a boulder into the stream, blocking the flow. "Furthermore, other than time, I can control this stream." he said. "I can bend and shape it. I can recreate it, suiting my tastes." With that, he drew a small, curved line. The water stream flowed again, following the curves.

"Time" he continued "is a bizarre thing. Not bound by anything, yet so solid in place. Invisible, yet always clearly present."

He walked back to me. "Time is always going in one speed. And yet we feel that time passes slower or quicker at certain moments."

He looked at the sky, to the millions of visible stars. He pointed toward them.

"The light we see is old. Millions of years old. Yet time stayed with them. Time didn't change."

"Isn't it beautiful?" he whispered with a smile. "Isn't it beautiful how time works? How much we know about it, and how much we still don't understand?"

"How much will we know?" I asked.

He looked at me and smiled. "Only time can tell"

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