I have derived the title of this story from a line in verse 2 of Sandy Denny’s lovely song ‘Who knows where the time goes’
Sad, deserted shore,
Your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know
It’s time for them to go
But I will still be here,
I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
I feel strongly that Sandy refers in her song to a love she feels, that is so powerful, that it may seem to surpass time itself.
Certainly, the first deep love I ever felt for a girl almost consumed me, or so it seemed at the time. I still feel that love for her, and the others that came after it, both with a sense of joy, but at other times with an inconsolable grief.
As an ongoing process of living, the very particles that make up our corporal being are constantly transmuted into the body’s waste products, as they are replaced my new particles. So that some parts of our bodies, eg. our skin, are replaced every few days. Even the matter that is our bones has the reasonably short shelf life of about 1-2 years. That is the very nature of organic life.
It is then, entirely possible for you to make love to a girl, whose body contains some of the previous constituent matter of the girl who ditched you 7 months ago. There is also no rule that says it is impossible to make love to a young girl who is made up entirely of the previous constituent matter of the love of your life who tragically died in a car crash 20 years ago. It’s just unlikely in the time given.
In such a chaotic world then, and with forces powerful enough to distort time – time no longer matters. A certainty that you will again be with your loved one in another existence is not just a fairy tale, but entirely possible.
When I first started this story, which is informed by an experience long ago, the act of writing plucked emotions from within me, that had not been visited for a long time, and I pondered on my current feelings for the girl who inspired the story. There is no doubt that the girl in the story is an ‘amalgam’ of several loves in my young life, a composite rather than an original – but is that just a story-teller’s privilege, or could it describe a reality in which the ‘perfect’ parts of the time-travellers current girl-friend have been abstracted from an original set of his previous try-outs? – And with each iteration his experiences of her grow and grow until cataclysmic criticality?
Warning: The story contains adult subject matter, several explicit scenes of an intimate sexual nature, and is not suitable for minors, or those who are easily offended.
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The story is available as a PDF download here: I Do Not Count The Time
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