Time is an Abstract Noun, it Literally CANNOT Get Rough

But the idea is still there. The idea is flawed. I mean, if you’re walking on smooth pavement, as opposed to an equally flat but slightly rougher feeling gravel, the only difference you would actually feel would be if your shoes were off. It would probably hurt almost the same amount if you fell on it, and doing a cartwheel on either of those surfaces isn’t well-advised anyway. 

So, now, we have a metaphor. The road is time. Which is so cliche, but just go with it, okay? So, we have to ask a question. Just how rough is this road getting? Cat tongue rough or pothole-riddled gravel rough? Are we traveling on this road with a car, a bike, a flappityfloozle, or our own two feet? Could we possibly be hovering over this road? 

Then we remember again: still just a metaphor. This road doesn’t exist. We’re trying to comprehend time as an abstract Noun better by transforming it into something palpable. Which is ridiculous in itself, because we don’t have the power to transform things, we’re not wizards. We can’t look at a person, be confused and then poof them into a tree. So why do we think we have the right to use a metaphor to change what time is?

Because time doesn’t exist. It’s just a word to describe the passing of our lives. Which brings me back to the original point…time can’t get rough. When you start a story, you should not start with: It was the fall of 2012, and times were rough for our young hero. 

Now that we have that completely pointless matter all cleared up, let’s move on to the subject at hand.

It was Autumn of the year 2012, and times were abstract for our dashing protagonist.

She had just attended a meeting that was scheduled for an absolutely ridiculous time in the morning (around 7:30), and now she was home weighing the options for her [abstract] future. This meeting had been in relation to her scholarly duties, which included the art of writing (Pshhhh, got that one in the bag), the concept of algebraic equations (Why is Y always looking for her X, and why are we responsible for finding him?), and the fundamental study of Spanish (because being bilingual is sexy).

Her body was heavy with sleep and a few too many sugar-free peanut butter cookies. Her eyes looked on with knowledge and sly calculation. Her hands worked quickly and with agility at her work, which would be seen by few, but loved by many generations to come (a little full of herself, by the way). Her legs curled under her butt (total Callipygian, btdubs), and her skin sparkled with tiny cute shivers that would make even Michael Phelps offer her a jacket. 

She had no reason why she was explaining any of this, but enjoyed fantasy and similes, so she continued working as if everybody in the world gave a damn. 

The problem was that she was already rather upset that day. Her phone, one of her only means of contact to the outside world, had unexpectedly fallen sick and died, and now she was responsible for the planning of a phoneral, which is not a goos time, let me tell you!

She sat on her unmade bed, which hadn’t been slept in since The Kennedy Assassination, and wept freely looked classier than a stone cold fox.

As she finished posting a blog that no one would ever read, her toes finally warmed, and the high, sweet whistle of a team kettle chimed in her ears. She rose slowly, finished tagging a completely pointless group of paragraphs, and then went on her way…right after mentioning that yes, she did go on an adventure last night, and yes, it did involve taco bell.

Love ya!

 

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