We are all born blades / keen to cut through the fabric of time.
When we are young, the fabric is so thin and we are so sharp.
A grownup holds the handle of the knife for you to ensure you cut well.
Then one day, you find that you are holding your own knife, and a quarter of a century seems like an eternity—it’s the only time you’ve ever known.
The fabric keeps getting thicker and the blade inevitably dulls, but you keep cutting cutting cutting.
A year ago, it seemed like death was lurking on every door knob.
The blade seemed less assured of cutting through the fabric. There was a wobble in the involuntary act of cutting.
A baseline fear became interwoven with the fabric, making the simplest of actions fraught. Watch television with friends at their house? Heck no!
Go for a walk on the pier? Also no.
Accept a bag of nuts from the guy on the plane who didn’t eat his? This could be my end. (I did take the nuts.)
Now we are on the other side of the wobble.
I saw a meme the other day where a lion was excitedly licking a baby warthog it had caught in anticipation of a tasty meal. (The warthog looks exasperated.)
I had to scroll away before it got violent. (Maybe it didn’t?)
What came to my mind is that Time is the Lion, and you are the warthog. (And I am you in this scenario.)
How much scratchy licking you can take?
I’ll take much as I can, thank you.
I got out of the house to play a show last week, and it seemed like the wobble and the Lion were leaving me alone for a second. The blade was decently sharp if a little rusty. Still cuts. I’d like to do that again. Here is photographic proof that this happened.
Now I’ve got to muster the nerve to give a Guinea Pig a bath. Wish me luck. Stay alive. Keep cutting.