The Passage of Time
I once thought a year was a long time. Back then, 365 days meant an eternity until the release of the next movie sequel or video game. I sized up to the long infrastructure projects happening around my neighborhood, unsatisfied with the present and putting all my hope into a piece of paper that estimated completion by 2011. By then, I told myself, life would be different, maybe even happier. How time passes, I have no clue. For every moment I spend thinking about it, minutes are wasted, and that's the bulk of my thoughts: how much time I've squandered. I indulge in the melancholic memories of regrets and efforts. The time I used to venture into failed endeavors darkens my heart and brings a sense of hopelessness into the air. Somehow, it's easier to remember the pain of three years ago, rather than the joys of one year prior. I can count the days and weeks of hurt, but the moments of jubilation are whimsical thoughts, forever evanescent.
To count the amount of times I've wanted to return to the past would make anyone a millionaire. My expertise comes in the remembrance of my past, paradoxically in the exaggeration of the hurt I felt and the supposed bliss of a younger me. I yearn for another chance at the antics of high school and college, both because I crave to remedy the sadness that I now claim to have the recipe to fix. For the better moments, I reminiscence in it all, be it the laziness of a weekday afternoon or the odd excitement of a late night movie snuggled in my bed.
So, of all the places I could've chosen to visit, I decided the bench by the pizzeria made me miss you the most. There, on the cold stone benches, I decided that time had stopped and given me a firm answer. It didn't matter if days, months, or years passed. Somehow, you'll always be the one thing I remember when I walk by with a teary-eye stare, completely oblivious to the surroundings that decided not to wait for me. The pain feels surprisingly euphoric, a concoction of the bliss I had once felt, palpable for just a moment as I walk by the benches, dissipating into oblivion, where my current soul lies.
That's all to say time seems fleeting on a constant basis. I know the seconds pass with every word I write and every minute I spend torturing myself in self-defeating thoughts hinders the clock from hitting 12 to begin a new day. Time is too valuable to me, so I spend all of what I have languishing over each millisecond wasted. There goes another one, and yet one more. Yet, I'm still not quite ready to end the snooze on my alarm clock. Just five more minutes, I tell myself, as I wait for the missing satisfaction to finally euthanize my brain in preparation for another you to kill my time. I don't need to be completely awake, only eventually tired of the current tears of which I make my bed.
Call me a dog chasing after its own tail.