While you sleep,
I struggle not to let you cloud and clutter my mind.
Me, ‘It’s been so long,’
but you, ‘don’t believe in the concept of time.’
Time is not as objective as you think.
Or so I thought… Time… I asked for time… Time to process what? And why?
When I look at you,
Despite either of our changes in appearance,
3 years ago seems like it was just yesterday.
Maybe I’m wrong and you’re right.
And clocks are just emotionless faces,
Hands pointing at numbers,
Telling us what to do WHEN.
Why do we construct our whole lives based on a gear operated machine?
And don’t get me started on calendars.
They’re just spiral notebooks that have been tainted by numbered squares
And reminders of the shitty holidays that no one gives a fuck about.
What a waste.
Or maybe time is real.
And maybe it’s just something about us
That bypasses all the rules set by father time
…every single time.
And maybe time finally becomes irrelevant…
Only once you are free from the shackles set on us by Big Ben.
And maybe we’re, or rather I’m,
Learning that this freedom
From the constructs of time
Can only be found in
The comforting arms of something familiar and pure.
The truth is I don’t know “what’s wrong.”
…or what’s right.
I Only know that my uncertainty is a race against the clock.
Time may not be relevant to you.
but Will you, if you dare to
Tell, make it worth mine?