Sprouts burst forth anew;

Leaves manifest from within to allow, once more, for there to be a thickening.

Where is it that we are destined?

            Will there be true rest again –

                        What about frivolities with friends?

Why do we bother so much with the questions of where does this train end when we spend most our time preparing, pretending, or digging our heels in defending against the march of time?

Always forward. Always moving toward, yet never arriving.

It’s doubtful that many of us care much about if/where time reaches its destination; instead, we’re more preoccupied with which timeslot our departure is booked for.

Some of us can become worked up into fits over the unknowns of this whole ordeal with time; it’s particularly fascinating when one’s worries about things of time reach a point where they’re unable to allow themselves sleep at night.

Of course, this makes some innate sense; after all, sleep punctuates our days by plunging us into the voidless unknown or the mysterious manifestations of the involuntary experiences of dreams – wouldn’t this experience be the most apt comparison to gain some sort of understanding of what the experience will be like when the clock’s hand finally moves to the top, and life as we know it either ceases and stops or continues in a peculiar fashion?