Tick Tock

Time is sliding away.

I grasp at it clumsily, but my fingers feel heavy like lead and move in all the wrong ways. I miss time by minutes and months, and I feel slow and dumb and dull. I blink, but my eyelids move too slowly, and by the time they have opened again, the field is blurry and wrong, and it is gone. Time has passed me again, leaving me behind, confused, sluggish, and too late.

In other moments, I forget about time, and I frantically whirl about, racing forward, tumbling onward. Time has no place, and we have never met, and I keep whirling whirling whirling, and the dizzness whirls and whirls and whirls. Then I suddenly remember, and all things halt. I frantically try to gather time around me, grabbing at it with both hands, inhaling it, devouring it, melting it. But then it is gone again, and it has left a mess, and I am alone, ravaged and askew. It is too late to make amends. It has left me, or maybe I have left it. I call out to it, begging, crying, full of regret. I'm sorry, time. I'm sorry.

Occasionally I am successful in remembering time, and we are one, languid and floating, laughing and dancing. Time is everywhere, and it is abundant. Time is golden, and I am golden, and together we glow like the fireflies and the candlelight and the stars, and everything is good again.

When it has flitted away, I try to beckon it back to me, recalling the quiet moments spent in peace, simply being. I can find it there in the sun, in the walks, in the laughter. What good times time and I had together then, when we relaxed and reclined as old friends. Perhaps time will slowly return to me, and I will be careful not to startle it by moving too fast or yelling too loud. I will approach it slowly, step by step, breath by breath. It will stand still, watching, waiting to see what happens next.

Tick tock.

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