Today there is just this day remaining: one last day amongst thirteen thousand five hundred thirteen. Thirteens, these book ends. What tomes are writ there once? What are to be writ here hence?
And I will go to bed at noon.”
— Fool, William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III
This once statement, even affirmation of a seeming known. Then what was once morphed into question, questing hope. Now it is not anymore of Now; only that it was and will not be. Or not yet, at least.
I see a child. He smiles. He laughs. He takes my hand. I kneel. He knows me for he knows himself. My cheek he caresses. He stills the moments between the inhales and exhales. We turn to the sound of Moon whispering, trees tickling, winds sighing. I was born thirteen thousand five hundred thirteen days ago. There yet remains a task needing my attending, if only I could remember its in-betweens.
Are you sure
That we are awake
It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream”
— Demetrius, William Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV
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