It’s tempting to count the years, for they stare us directly in the face, squared and symmetrical, pedantically striped in rows of repetition so systematic, they could only be man-made, for nature doesn’t birth such repetitions, and if does, it’s only upon the rarity of something growing out of sight, something like a benign tumour of minerals locked away in the belly of the earth, deprived of sunlight, of wind, of rain, and so growing the way years do; unvarying and identical, valueless and irrelevant.

We are beyond counting years now, for we know that the absence of fabricated fragments and convenient classifications of time is not something to fear, as years only exist in a mind that thinks of them, and here all we have is time; endless strings of moments that span out in every single direction all at once, with no beginning and no end, a web of tiny portions of precious existences, each and every one, though infinite, unique.

(Source: tessvandeyk)