I wrote this after a break-up as I impatiently waited for the pain to pass. It was a gentle but firm reminder to appreciate the moment for what it was and not what I longed for it to be.

TIME. The word itself in all its capital glory is ominous. There’s never enough of it, and we are in agony when there’s just too much of it.  At 7.5 years old I was no longer a mere 7 years resident on this earth, I was clearly halfway to being 8. And what eager 20 year old is not already making plans for a monumental 21st birthday? We’re always in a rush to get somewhere else.

We never enjoy where we already are. Sometimes the moment itself is so painful and difficult to climb from, so we launch our thoughts, our actions forward and away, catapulting us and pulling us from the misery.  But why should the passing of time be agonizing to begin with? After all, what is a moment but a collection of minutes? A year, but a collection of months? And time, but a construct of the weary mind? Why should time be so long?


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