The weight has come to rest on the eyelids. They refuse to close for fear it may be the last time they see movement. Lately the days aren't reminiscent of time spent sipping from cups. Not even the fancy cups my grandmother served to the ladies with embroidered handkerchiefs in their purses.

The fingerprints then were small and didn't have many secrets to hold but were full of expectation. Mischief was ordinary and leaving before one hundred years were filled was out of the question. Of course, this type of longevity requires daily renewal.

The prints of sin can hide the value of the heart like bad abstract art. Still it isn't as easy to avoid as once believed. It stands on every corner waiting to weigh in.

Everlasting seems so far away yet we try to seal time in a jar like the preserves we have stored away for when the snow storm comes and there's no escaping for food. Time is moving quickly it's hard to imagine a day seeming as a thousand years. Even when the days seem longer the quality of time does not compare to what can fit into one day. Wasted moments never to be tasted again. Meaningless mundane chores dictating whether or not you can keep the lights on or the belly full. Purpose seems as if it turned the corner without you and you try desperately to remember the beginning.

Moving is more complicated than it appears. The act of motion one would first imagine as being propelling. Until you realize you have passed the same landmark yet again. You gave up counting because it reminded you of how gullible you really are. Markers in time or maybe little stamps placed on the soul like the tasteless mementos we purchase at gas stations when we are on road trips.

How can now be so present and timeless at the same time? Forwardly thinking, hoping--propelling to the next stop on the road. The journey has no script and whatever notes you can find spread between the intersections may have been edited to mislead you into thinking you're headed in the right direction. In fact, you can't even trust your survival instincts at this moment. It's all subjective and the notion of faith in surviving has all but dissipated.