Time

I woke up in my bed thinking of time. I think of the limited number of breaths each one of us has. Like a grandfather clock ticking, like a bomb waiting slowly to explode, ready to explode in silence. And yet what is it that we are doing while this clock ticks? We waste this time, these precious minutes that turn into hours which turn into days and on into months. We then find ourselves after these years to have blinked an eye in which everything flew away into dust, into a hazy pool of memory. Of course, time can be a different story. It can be all the world of possibility and if we were to take it seriously, it could be everything. Yet sometimes I feel time itself does not really exist. I'm not about to go into my rant of the existence of nothing, only interpretation, but I will say that time is in truth a human created invention. Whether this changes anything or not I will never know. Life would seemingly cease to be hours and day, weeks and months. The calendar would be abandoned and everything would become more like just a series of successive events. That, to me, would be a little weird, but not an altogether foreign feeling.

There are nights when time causes me to stay awake. It has the power to make me question how I am using my own sense of time and how to make the most of it. So thank you, dear time, for letting me ponder you, dissect you and express your undeniably false identity.