Time is what it undeniably is without concern for your definition of it. Enviably genuine to its cause and nature without regard for what we will it to be. One linear existence that stretches on more reliably than anything else in the universe. It doesn’t care if it’s your birthday, or the first day of the year. It’s not bothered by your intentions or your hopes. It is what it is and it brings what it may, and the sooner we accept that, the happier we’re sure to be.

We plan and we primp and we make sure everything is perfect for the occasion on which our imagined stars align. On the perfect date, the exact time, we envision perfection that is oftentimes thrown on account of rain. We never understand it. We logic away at it, we rationalize its cruelty. We miss entirely the randomness. We search for answers in a realm of chaos, hoping to find some sense of order in the very model of anarchy.

In the end, there is no perfect moment to get started, there are only moments. Any one of them can take you away. All the ones you don’t choose are vehicles for stalling, not divine breadcrumbs. There is no planning for the as of yet unfolded. There are no guarantees that are worth our manic pining. Perhaps the greatest thing we can do to reach divinity is to let the stars align on their own. Maybe we’re treated to greater things when we’re open to anything that can deliver itself without our intervention. Time is the single greatest self-assured and self-fulfilled entity in the known universe. Perhaps the correct way to wield it is to emulate it.