The Royal Proclamation Of The Anthill Monarch

The droning ticks of the clock are so constant, so precise, and so omnipresent that they naturally fall into the hollow places of the mind. The places occupied by the sounds so common we forget they are miraculous. The places filled with the chirps of birds and the rustling of the wind.
The places where the truly beautiful is pushed aside to make way for the painfully irrelevant.

In the relentless pursuit of what we think will make us happy, we fill calendars and schedule rat races to drown out the silence of inactivity; to push out the quiet meditations of the late nights where the tick tock of our watches ring as loud as church bells and remind us that our time is not ours.

Even calling it "our" time seems so natural. But it's a gift. Moreso a stewardship. We try to control the time like it is ours, like we own it. But the placid, deafening midnights and the six month diagnoses scream the same thing into ears accustomed to selective hearing - that all our best laid plans are illusions. They are the feeble attempts of deranged men who think they are kings. They are the puny efforts, made by men who rule mounds of dirt, to glorify themselves with time meant to glorify Another.

Time is a talent from a Wealthy Creator, every second is a chance for repentance. And so every second is beautiful. Every breath a reminder of grace. Every tick of the clock's hand a symphony of mercy.
Time is a gift. Bury it at your own peril.