Apr 16


I do not feel the passage of time.
I could not distinguish fifteen from thirty minutes,
one hour from two,
ten seconds from twenty.
The forward procession of the minute hand mystifies me,
seeming to work against the logic of my brain.

And yet how is it that my internal clock
functions so well without the consent of my conciousness?
How have I managed to wake exactly at seven 
for the past two mornings? 
My body seems in tune to some rythmn
that my mind cannot fathom.
I must be out of sync somewhere.

Time eludes me in its passing,
and yet I feel its disappearance so acutely.
The seconds pile up behind me,
morphing into minutes,
transforming into hours, days, weeks, months.
A year falls away and leaves a yawning cavern within me,
and suddenly my mind understands the consequences
of time foolishly traded in
for experiences that blend into a beige fog of memories.

I could wisen myself.
I could learn from my fear of that never-stagnant march of the clock.
I could follow that monotonous mantra
and Make Every Moment Count. 
But I am not known for my subscription
to simple, sensible logic,
so I will ignore the tugging in my gut
and I will be deaf to the ticking of the second hand
and I will procrastinate the panic,
forgetting that future becomes present becomes past.
I will let this moment be