It’s fair to say that time and I are on difficult terms are the moment. I’m trying to bring it to order, to make it behave and it’s defiantly refusing to do anything of the sort. And it’s exhausting. Days are too short and minutes too long, meanwhile, my allocation is running out and I can’t stop it.
Killing time, marking time, making time and taking it. Spending time, like it’s money in the bank. The way we talk about the hands’ relentless circling might suggest that we’re in charge.
Listen up, Time, I’m the boss and you’ve just got to run at the speed I say. Zoom through the dull bits and snail slide through the joy.
But that’s not the truth of it. If you listen. That’s not ticking you can hear, it’s clockwork laughter. Time doesn’t care about me. Or you. Not for a second.
It seems that there’s not another moment to squander. I need a new plan, a better way to make time mine again. To blow on the embers and get warm in the blaze for as long as it lasts. A second chance, even.