Temporal melancholy

Time is no verdict nor punishment, a hill in my way didn't prevent me on purpose to walk in a straight direction. A time piece tells a strictly linear chronology, it doesn't record time into an archive to harass you with guilt, the horror of what was done and what could have been done. The movement of arms indicate and that indication flits, lost, no way to tweak into a playback. Each moment is now, eternal to your liking, and insubstantial, but in the difference between each passing moment, how trivial and marginal ever so, lies their rich and virtuous flavour as each shore contains the promise of virgin soil to till and therein the testimony of an admirable property of the soul.

The past is wrapped in a closed envelop, no one is entitled to break the wax seal. Therein a draft that won't ever be edited and amended. Til someone finds a rabbit hole, unsheaths time from our common quotidian preconceptions and discovers we all move on a mind-boggling Moebius Strip, and drops a message in a bottle for his heretofore persona. Will he find it? And read it? And will any change he makes matter at last?