We come to life with crying and we expect a smiling departure.
The weeping cry, sounding like a whistle of a "big fight," is the beginning of a great adventure.
Time then begins to count because we become conscious of its existence.
Before we are born time exists and determines only the others. When a major event occurs, say the birth of a child, we remember the time, the day, the month, the time the event happened. We say: on 22/5/85 or 2/3/90 was born, the ... The next or three days later we do not remember absolutely anything.
Thus, time is marked by events that mark our lives and are indelibly marked in our memory and divide it at short or long intervals.
Our first love with her love nights, a long-lasting friendship, the loss and absence of a loved one, are images of the time that are filtered and evaluated according to each person's personal sensitivity ... Excluding events such as wars, revolutions, natural disasters where time is collectively conscious but still experienced individually ...
These important events of our lives are moments, minutes, hours, months, the seasons we meet.
Every time the time is measured differently. A love can hold a month, a year, but it can also be a lifetime.
When you fall in love, you are reborn or moved to a higher level of existence, where time becomes a myriot butterfly that rockies kissing her wings.
When you mature internally, you put a breeze in your Ego and meet with others by gaining friendship, then you put a trickle in the time that goes on barking.
When love is overtaken by you, you bow to the vastness of sorrow.
When you separate loved ones, time freezes in your soul and becomes eternal.
The alternation of feelings and mood, or the succession of joy and sorrow, the play of life and death, is the time with its epochs, succeeding one another. It is not the browse of a casemate or the subdivisions of a calendar year. Time is our relationship and the way our passage determines our behavior. It is the fairy that swam in the rivers of our dreams and in the waterfalls of our imagination, but it is also the wild beast that devours and captures our youth.
The invisible side of our dreams and the display of their images in our minds and hearts. The singing of birds, hiding the moon in the clouds. The laughter of the sunrise, the sigh of the west are points on the curve and the stations in the windy time.
Time is finally the ship that carries the dreams and fantasies of the century wandering. Odysseus, for a non-existent << Ithaca >>.