Note:
Asar is an Arabic word for time.
The root of “Asar” relates to “leaving a mark, trace, or effect.” Words derived from this root often revolve around ideas of “impact, consequence, and legacy.” “Asar” conveys the idea of something remaining behind—a physical trace, an effect, or a legacy—and its root ties it to the broader concept of leaving an impression or influence.
An invitation.
The earth does not hiccup when missing a soul. It is inattentive to what it carries while spinning animatedly.
The blue sapphire, a giant chubby abode, circles the sun and takes over a year to follow an almost circular path to complete the journey. Our calendar is based on the duration of this travel. A steady tilt of 23.4 degrees during this long trip keeps its facade forever surprised, staring at the universe in every direction. Without any scientific apparatus, it is impossible to notice the slant when you look at it. These intelligent arrangements with foresight—the inclination and rounded or elliptical path—gave birth to seasons and blessed the seed of nourishment for our souls and bodies. Unlike the swirling dervishes, our planet also revolves counterclockwise on an imaginary axis that passes through the north and south poles like a needle piercing a bead. Always facing the sun, the earth needs 24 hours to complete a full rotation—the basis of our clock to measure days. To measure the most critical countdown!
We created and became custodians of the autocrat, “time,” or “Asar.” It skates into our lives while the earth twirls. No one has touched, smelled, or seen “time.” No one can deny its existence. An unseen. Yet, it is as accurate as anything we know to be genuine. It references evidence, a sign of the past, relics, or remnants like the footprints on the sand of a traveler. But it inevitably erodes its curator squeeze after squeeze, drip by drip. So, the verdict for the earthlings was never in doubt, always a matter of ‘when ‘rather than ‘if’; no matter the doing and preparations, the final call to exit is never a whisper. No one could leave or escape alive.
Add a hundred years to our count of fortes, and there will only be a memory of us. On faded paper. Or if we are beyond fortunate on moss-covered stones. Once we own this truth, what is next? There is no prelude to our “next,” always inherently an ambush, an astonishment. How, then, is knowing helpful when life is nothing but complications and stacks of events without any precise solution? We are abandoned in an unlit crater of hopelessness. Hurt from a collapse—uncomplicated yet a collapse, nonetheless.
Our existence is as fickle as the vapor that aviates too swiftly without meaningful scraps of its absences. And the countdown to vacate began before we realized everything was provisional! The dungeon of allotted seconds—less than three billion human heartbeats, a significant yet finite number—becomes a quagmire when our attempts to reason are prolonged repeatedly. Waiting has no mercy and no option for a do-over. Only make do. It is cruel, clearly! What is left is here, this moment, and until.