Time is a line or a wave that sometimes falls in place with your self. It is as if some of the struggle in the being no longer feels completely misfit, like a skin drawn too tight over inner turbulence.

For a very long passing of time, my inner always in some kind of discomfort with the outer, a dissonance even though everything always seems ok when I look at it from the inside-out, a postcard view. But always being slightly disconnected, like sensing a ripple in the surface that binds us.

I is the entanglement of all accumulated time and it is as entanglement I live and breathe, with all the strangeness and paradox of every moment coming. It will never become undone. accepting each step taking me deeper into the entanglement that is my own part of life weaved into the world. Breathing and moving in every thread of its fluid existence.

I don’t care much for the confinements we create to keep apparent order, it is not worth suffering for. Even the strong suffer, I sometimes wonder if they don’t suffer more than the weak, those that seemingly pull the strings, what heavy predestination makes their arms move and burdens their stiff shoulders?