Thursday, 13 March 2014

It's about time

Reading my post about the bats to a dear cousin of mine, she said "who has time to read that rubbish?". Well maybe it wasn't the best post to choose. Actually I can imagine my Dad would have said something like that too. She then said she couldn't bear all these emails to- ing and fro-ing and how no- one has any time. Well we do all have the same number of hours in each day as Einstein had, say, or Leonardo da Vinci. It's the way we choose to use our time that matters. Modern technology should have made life easier and given us lots more time. Modern communications are practically immediate. E-mails and texts swoosh off at the touch of a button and replies can ping back instantly. We can have whole conversations without ever speaking to each other. My cousin is from a generation reared on letters and thank you notes, carefully hand-written, posted and displayed on a shelf. The world has changed incredibly fast in the last 15 years in that respect, but have we still got time for each other?

Here is a poem lamenting the decline in hand-written letters and diaries that started to dwindle with the invention of the telephone.
In years to come
There'll be no letters
Yellowed at the edge,
To save for generations
Yet unborn.
There'll be no diaries
Left for them to see
How great- grandfather spent his day,
Or worked his way
On freighter ships
Across the seas.
No love notes
Hidden in a secret drawer,
Tied with faded ribbon
To read again once more.
The telephone is close at hand
And we no longer understand 
The pen,
How deep the loss 
Of all those yesterdays
With joy and sorrow
If they are all forgotten
By tomorrow

Antonia B. Laird 

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