Bookmark #538

Today, as the evening slowly turned the sky lavender with each passing minute, I thought about time again. There has to be some significance for my deliberation with time. One might even call it obsession, but I do not care what it is called. There is no need to define everything. If there is anything that is guaranteed to bring about the end of the world as we know it, it would be our perpetual need to have words for all things. We must feel to feel, and we must write or talk about the little we remember. I prefer to write. When I speak, I can never seem to find the right words. Even if I forage some of them and string a sentence together, the recipient fails to do their part in finding the appropriate response. The cycle continues.

In any case, as I peeked at the evening come about and change everything to a fluffy, cotton candy pink, there was an urgency in me to get up, go outside and look at the trees and the sky. Time was running out; it was running out, and there was nothing I could do about it. In a desperate attempt to salvage a situation already out of my hands, I ran out onto the balcony and had a quiet moment. I cannot explain this urgency, and I believe there is no word for it. If there is, I would not know it, and if someone told me an obscure, pretentious word, I would still think it captured none of my haste.

Some of us can always see time passing and, thus, are mindful of it. I watch the seconds tick like stray drops on the kitchen shelf, which fall here and there when you make a cup of coffee. Unnecessary and trivial, but small as they are, they are still a part of the coffee. And so, all my wasted seconds bring me a pain I can’t much translate.

I must capture as much of it as possible; even if I do, some of it will have spilt away. I do not much know what to do about it. All the moments I seize remind me of just so many I may have missed.

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