Lo After These Many Years

Lo, after these many years one wonders what has happened. One thinks, wow was that really many years? Then one thinks, well, duh, how else could it be, I mean several hundred weeks have gone by, and yet, really, years? Yes, really, years. So fast and yet the days creep along, like the last snail in a snail race, you're yelling and screaming, "GO FASTER GO FASTER!!" and yet the snail just keeps on at its own maddening pace. Well it is actually highly deceptive, seeming like several hundred years, rather than weeks, but it has happened and there is no stopping  it.
Yes life can be maddening as a portrait, or rather time is maddening, although life is time because as a portrait time is one of your few possessions. Actually you're more of time's possession, for with nothing of interest to do or any other variation in the day time is unbearably uncontrollable. As I have already stated I am a portrait. What kind of portrait you ask? Well I am an oil based painting. I am no longer sure from what era; as the years pass with nothing to do to exercise your memory you begin to unlearn what you thought you'd always known. You couldn't date the style the artwork either, if art work is what you'd call me, for the artist was if my memory serves me correctly a bit of an eccentric. He would come in from outside with handfuls of mud and scrape it onto his pallet in an attempt to make the "medium come to life" and in a fit of passion throw mud around the room shouting "the world is my canvas!" He would then run back outside to cry about how cruel the world is before having a conversation with the dandelions. He never finished any of his work. In fact he didn't even finish me. The family dog was the one that put the finishing touches on me after eating too much grass and projectile-vomiting all over the painting. Upon seeing this the painter realized that the green fibrous splatter was a perfect summation of the feelings he was trying to evoke. So here I am; just your ordinary impressionistic water scene.