I looked at my watch and observed the time. It was the only thing that made sense. Every tick and every pause -the fractions in between -were the only certainty we had.
I tried to tug on the sheets and awaken the monster inside you. You pulled them over my head and we went deeper. Beneath the dimmed light of Egyptian cotton, life became clearer and the path forward was easily marked. We didn't know where on the planet we were, but we knew where we began and where we ended. The only path was to go deeper down the climb.
The clock stopped.
As our motions began to speed up, the sense of anticipation was awakened. Beyond this though, reality began to skew, stretch, and blur. The world did not exist.
As we held the hands of time, they began to pull us back. The threads, so tightly wound before, were unravelled and began to reveal every detail otherwise lost. It was the crushing summation of an imperfect existence. There were holes where fulfilment belonged, frays as placeholders for relationships, and knots of missed opportunity.
As the pleasure merged with the pain, it revealed The Climb -a path so steep and so unstable, that the end was neither well-defined nor visible. At the end though, the promise of time well spent.
The enigma was that the harder you climb, the slower time goes; yet the more slothful you climb, the faster time ticks by.
I finished, emerged from the sheets, and was left with this riddle in my head...
This thing all things devours:
People, love, birds, and towers;
Forgets the famous, ruins towns,
And beats islands down.