marmi achachi

They see me, every day. Yet I am but slowness in their peripheral vision. Even my son shall dance gleefully- sometimes he mocks me, at my oldness.

I feel like a frozen pole; in my mind, I know I am moving, but at the same time, it’s as if my soul is moving through hardening glue, just like me.

The creators of my world have made me the grandpa- they even pay more attention to my younger sister. They know me in time, but that fades to ordinary knowledge. I am not nearly needed enough for their care. I see their busy lifespans- always rushing, always looking for something that isn’t there. I’ve seen tears of sadness in my vision, all because they have hurried too quickly to see their potential happiness.

This knowing crosses my mind every day, but I can neither speak nor shout. My son is the beat that keeps us moving, my sister is the reminder that already time has passed, and I am the one that never seems to change- but when you take another closer look, I have already fast-forwarded time.

These humans that I see, sometimes I pity them. When will they understand that sometimes, instead of running, you need to walk and praise the snail? These creatures have programmed us- my son resonates with how they act every day, yet he cannot stop because he was designed not to. These sophisticated beings know much more, but it seems like they pay too little attention to me, the most important.

Unlike my son, they have the choice to move at their own pace- but it seems like they flick that away and in no time, have grown gray hair. Sometimes I wonder. Is gray hair a payback for wasting their happy moments? Is it a contagious illness? Everyone in my sight has soon grown gray hair, before I never see them again.

What does the color of hair mean?

Years I spent pondering these questions. It seems like even though I go round in circles in my small world, I never end. I am infinite. I, unlike these humans, have something they do not. I have time. Yet, though I have all that I need, I daren’t waste a single moment of it. These mortals with the disease of gray hair- they seem to spend all of their lifetime throwing it away.

How can this be? Don’t they realize what they’re doing? Is it some sort of karma?

Then one day, a human walks up to me and stares at me straight in the face. It is the first time I have had this sort of recognition. He talks to another human, saying that I was off-time and my batteries needed to be changed.

Off-time? I am never wrong about time. How could he say such a thing? I am my own essence, and I can never be wronged, unlike these humans. And what is ‘batteries’? How in any way is this ‘battery’ thing any part of me? Why does it need to be changed?

For the first time in my time, my mind seems to work faster and flurries of thoughts comes at me. Then, the human picks me up. What are they doing? How am I moved from my position? My pacing grows faster and faster, something that has never happened before, for I was always on time, always balanced. Then I feel his hand against the world’s back, something I have never seen nor felt before. I feel something coming apart. What are you doing? Why are you ruining my world? How is this–  

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