A Short Thought of Time

A woman sat on a porch, holding a mug filled with steam that wafted about the air.  The air itself was still.  Only the steam and a dog’s tail wavered back and forth.  Thus she sat in calm content, and thought of time.
            Time weaves and flows and falls, she thought.  The edge of it never appeared… until it did; abruptly.  And all that once seemed a circle suddenly proves false, she thought again.  All those silly people never understood, never got it; that it was never the world, but time that lay flat—and was all the more epic for being so…
            She blinked.  She had all the time in the circle… before it hit the edge.  It was, she thought, a truth with which it was well worth doing something.  And that, of course, made it all the more imperative to stand up, walk about, apply herself.
            But the air felt cool on her cheeks.  And the dog sat next to her so comfortably.  Surely, just this once, time would keep moving in a circle.  The edge was not so near.  And if it was, perhaps she wasn’t so unready to meet it.
            It was a nice thought. 
            She looked down into the depths of her cup.  The furthest depths.  Empty.  She rose, for the edge of time had met her—at least this edge.  But that was a thought for another morning. 

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