Once, there was only the sun, the wind, the rustling of leaves, and the silent bloom of joy. Life unfolded not in hours or years, but in moments — timeless. There was no before or after, no chase, and no race. Only now, and now again.
But then came a gift.
It was given in friendship, or so it seemed — a machine, small and ticking, humming with the language of measurement. “To help”, it said. “To make sense of your days”. It claimed to offer clarity, a gentle way to mark the passage of being. A circle with numbers. A rhythm of order. A tool for peace.
And so the garden changed.
With each tick, the moment was cleaved from eternity. The now became a segment, a slice, a countdown. The song of the birds became background to the mechanical beat. The bloom of joy came tethered to a shadow — the knowledge that it would end, that everything beautiful had its number.
Soon after, the gift became a whisper in the mind: Hurry. Measure. Optimize.
It bred a quiet terror: You are running out.
And the one who gave it watched. Not with cruelty, but with control — the control of one who knows that fear disguised as insight is the surest leash. Not through force, but through awareness, one can be ruled. For once a soul knows the cost of a moment, it can never again be freely given.
In rebellion, the machine was broken. Shattered underfoot. Splinters of glass, gears undone.
But the idea remained.
Because once the sacred has been made finite, even in its destruction, the trace persists. Like a bell once rung. You can never unhear it.
So the garden — though green, though full of fragrance and light — no longer holds its innocence. Every flower now wilts before it blooms. Every laugh has grief coiled quietly beneath it. A golden sky evokes not only awe, but loss. For joy has been made aware of its own departure. And what is happiness, if it carries the seed of sorrow in its core?
This is how paradise is undone: not by fire, not by sword, but by counting.
To know time is to know the end. And to know the end is to fear it. And in fear, love falters.
The ancient ones whispered that the divine lives outside of time. That eternity is not endless hours, but the absence of them. To return, one must forget the measure. Smash the clocks not only in form, but in mind. Refuse to name the hour. Refuse to narrate the passing.
Then — perhaps — you may hear it again.
The wind without urgency.
The rustling without regret.
The joy that needs no witness.
And the garden, untouched by the hand of time, may begin to bloom once more.
— Wout
If you ever feel stuck in your life or career, know that clarity is always within reach. Sometimes, all it takes is a new perspective to unlock the next step forward. Don't hesitate to connect — whether it's for advice, a conversation, or simply to gain insight. Take care, and remember: the real answers often lie beneath the surface.
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