the man lives like a person running out of time. i live like a person oblivious to time. when the man reaches for a hand it is that a hand of the past. when the man works he is relentless and when he rests he is both ticking into the past and further moving into the future. when he utters words, it feels like words of wisdom embodying lectures from an old man… and i am stuck standing beside him feeling small, my hand in his grip, waiting for the lecture to end. but in a reality far from my mind, i am not standing, nor am i being lectured. the seat of the man face mine in a glass covered room. when the man faces the glass he will see the reflection of an older version of him. whereas i will only have mine to stare at. the old man’s soul leaps a mere two years ahead of mine but we are in the same place of judgement nevertheless. he bores his eyes into that of my own and i realize i am looking at a version of myself that either could have been or will be.
