I have ten minutes to tell you.
Ten minutes to explain
That Now is all we can hold in our hands.
All we can lick up and lap up.
All we can bite into and swallow hard
Until it hits the barrel of our souls.
This single mundane moment.
Filled with single mundane actions.
No magic in it.
Not most of the time.
Stir the rice so it doesn’t get burned.
Write an essay.
Sit in traffic.
Bite your nails.
This is the stuff life is made of, you see.
Those moment to moment time passing activities,
Where we dream of a future that may hold more promise.
Or reminisce over a yesterday that brought us to tears.
Yet the commonplace moments are inevitably forgotten
When we write our own history books.
We pitch our best stories.
The ‘good stuff’.
The ‘hard stuff’.
The stuff that make us villains or heroes.
Our victories and our catastrophes.
Those markers in our lives where battles were fought.
Hearts were broken.
Where dreams were captured.
The epic stories we tell are not of me typing these words.
Not of him reading the newspaper.
Or of you doing the dishes.
Real life seeps in between the flags of moments marked.
It is the sections in between the written pages.
Life is the forgotten minutes.
The delicacy of the humdrum.
The beauty of banality.
The subtle nature that breaths into the Everyday.
Into the Everyman.