Today isn’t the first time the skies descend into the earth. Nor is it the first time the soaring birds nestle in their shelter, heavy and shivering cold. It is the millionth time, perhaps, the lightning strikes the hapless animal left cut out of a life in the open farm. It is the millionth time, perhaps, the traffic on the highway becomes sluggish, attempting to test the patience of jammed brain circuits. It is the millionth time, perhaps, the wind blows too strong, ripping the window naked, shamelessly giving an unwelcome opening. Nothing will ever be a first time.
As the rain thuds on the roof, waking up the asleep snuggling in bed or keeping the idle up in the couch, nothing remains as vivid as seen under the blue sky. Everything rightly becomes a world of parallel visibility. It becomes the alternate world taking over before the eyes of a stranded soul. And it’s been recorded recklessly in the pages of time. It is nothing new, and the past has been repeating itself needlessly sometimes.
Nothing is new in the books of age, where the past is just waiting to be flipped through only to be retold in the later chapters. The past has its way of propagandizing itself as either a ridiculous or lamenting alter ego. Sometimes, it is an agonizing piece of junk in one’s hand. But to give light in the dark, more importantly, it makes sure that through today it will serve as a lesson for tomorrow.
Nothing will ever be a first time, but anything can be your first.