The Scribe of Time

I found my old Scribe notebook last year, the one that held my earliest poems written in the 1980's, my secret thoughts, and my unspoken awakenings. The cover, once ordinary, now feels like an omen: a colorful watch with a playful face sticking its tongue out at time itself.

Back then, I didn’t see the irony. Even as a child, I was already scribing time. Each word I wrote captured not just moments but states of being, fragments of lifetimes echoing through one another.

Now as I read every single one, I understand that every poem was a timestamp of consciousness, a coordinate in the map of my own becoming.

This notebook is not only a relic from 1987; it is a portal. A reminder that I have always been what I am now: a scribe of time, recording the pulse of awareness, listening to the hum beneath silence, translating the unseen clockwork of the soul.

Scribing... The sacred act of translating vibration into word, recording the unseen evolution of the soul through the lens of time.

The watch on the cover makes me smile.

Maybe time knew all along that I would return, not to rewrite what was written, but to remember why I began writing in the first place.

 ☥