I’ve always had a connection with time.  I think I’ve always known it’s presence, it’s passing, it’s coming and going.  When I was 16, I wrote a song about time.  It started with this, “Where has my life gone?  Have my days gone faster than I knew?  Did time slip past my eyes when I thought I knew the truth?  Have I shut out reality that time ticks by the second hand?  Have I lost my perception to the clock held in my hand?“

I always knew it was going fast.  I have this love-hate relationship with time.  I find myself always wishing for something in the future to come faster: the weekend, the coffee date with friends, the movie show time, the vacation trip, the lunch break, the end of a workout, the end of the work day, the oven timer, the tea pot whistle, the first blooms of spring, the heat of summer, the change of fall.  It’s all a big cycle.  I’m always wishing for something that’s just out of grasp and then all too quickly gone forever.

I need to focus on being in the moment.  Once the moment is gone, it’s part of the past.  Each day, every minute, something else goes into my life history.  I want it to be worthwhile.  I want it to be meaningful.

I was sitting at work the other day stuffing envelopes and I was overcome with this anxiety that I was wasting precious time in my life putting letters into empty envelopes.  I felt like I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.  I took a break, got some coffee, and tried to calm myself down.  But the thought lingered in my head for the rest of the day.

I like time; I want more of it.  But time is everyone’s enemy.  It entices me with things in the future and then speeds by me without even a cursory nod of the head.

Time.  I want more of it; it would rather just move on.  Tick, tick, tick, tick.