Laying beneath a willow tree that had seen decades pass in trivial lifespans far longer than mine, I inhale a shift in the air. Is it nostalgia or hope? A certain unrest in my breaths rise low in my chest, neither optimism nor disquiet, yet nothing between the two. Wind sifts through the grass and reaches with chilled fingers through my hair, down my neck. I close my eyes.
I am convinced that I have lived through multiple eternities which, in some surreptitious corner of my mind, still are being experienced as real as these words.
For every time I return to another eternity, I feel, even though I cannot foretell any possible detail, as if I have been there before. "Home," it seems. Yet my home never was a specific location, nor sensation, nor feeling. Rather facets of existence cut out of life, matching the apertures in my rags of memory. 
And so I breathe. I see and touch and listen. I look into another's eyes and I wonder if they're forfeiting understanding for control, the way I do, to keep time still as stone.
Understanding why? That comes later, as fragmented and scattered as the occurrences themselves. It may never completely become whole. It may never make sense. Such is the price for those occurrences, if we are to have them at all.
Try as I might, no photograph nor journal entry do those eternities justice. They are feeble, futile, awkward attempts to represent something incapable of being captured. They are dreams I will return to, but never quite remember precisely, because they are not meant to be encapsulated entirely.
There is no certainty another eternity will arrive, not because I do not try to chase them, but because they summon themselves of their own volition, unraveling time only to wrap around me in ways I cannot predict. A strong will does not typically placate their chaotic and capricious nature. That's not to say it isn't possible.

I have chased, fought, and dug into the recesses of slipping moments just to watch time stutter to a standstill, and I have wept to feel them pass in multitudes.

But I entertain no delusions of control.
I worry for the cessation of these times. 
I worry for remembering.
For they do slip, so swiftly, despite all their endless splendor, overlapping in realms in and between the conscious seams of our dreaming and being.
The remnants are cracked glass reflections on shifting waters. They persist as waypoints in memory. How odd, then ... that only in willfully and temporarily forgetting some, in the heart of an eternity's exhalation, do we allow more to create themselves.