Every day is the same day. The same as the one before. The same as the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth.
Today is the very same as a day one million days ago. That’s 2739 years ago.
That’s, give or take, the year 740 BC. This number is only an approximation, as I’m sure there’s more complex maths involved that refuse to allow myself to be distracted by.
Today is the very same day as a day that occurred in 740 BC. The sun rises and sets. The tides surge in and out. Somebody is killed. A baby is born. A cold wind blows. A dust storm strands travellers. War is declared. A treaty is signed. Contracts are made and kept and broken. A forbidden kiss is stolen beneath a light that flickers.
The stars look down, even when the sun is shining. We crush the past. We compact it further with each step new step. Each new brick. Each landfill. Each new building foundation. We build a culture, each one a prototype, each one eerily reminiscent of the one that came before.
Faces beyond living memory stare at us from their portraits. What knowledge would they impart? Could they save us? Can we save ourselves?
At night, the stars sparkle. The moon is there. The moon was there two thousand years ago and was seen by someone like you.
Time swallowed them. History became words, numbers, records. It is incomprehensible. They are so far removed from us they are aliens. They are engravings and wood-etchings and cave paintings. They are skeletons flagged to be carbon-dated.
They were real.
Today is the same as a day a million days ago.
Except: you are here.
Michael Scott Hand 