Mining Beside that Midnight River
a poem
“Each moment, foolish mortal, is like ore
from which the precious metal must be wrung.”
— Baudelaire, “LXXXVIII: The Clock”
Suppose I pull from out this stone Of time its golden vein; Suppose its pale spall falls like dust; Suppose this dust is opaline And potent iridescent flecks Await some light to prismate The unassuming earth; And yet suppose in all this darkness Our perspective is a shadow Cast upon the present Such that our lamps best brighten Shining back on the receding past Or looking for what is to come But must occlude all in our grasp; If I must stand here ignorant Of all these gifts contained by time, It does not follow I should wring each moment as a rag. For they, being burnished in my palm, reveal what hidden fire within them burned once they're released and pass away.
A perspective all the more relevant for today, that's for sure. Excellent writing, Daniel. It's a shame so many see moments as fodder for some other end, rather than experiences to appreciate in their own right.
I can't wring each moment like a rag. I just can't. The faster time rushes by, the less I try to control it or record it in pictures.