If you weren’t such an important part of the way we measure our existence, I would call you a coward. Why you choose to hide behind second hands and between work schedules I would never know. You slip away from us with the ease of the wind; attaching only seconds to the opportunity to pour heart matter onto paper or spill thoughts onto the screen. You make it difficult for me to drain creativity out of the dust you’ve left me with. I hurry to catch up to you, forcefully picking up the pace of my fingers that heave in and out of breath. They say its good practice writing everyday so I fish for a way to transliterate thoughts against a racing pulse. Time. It is no secret your lack of compassion. It is the chit chatter of every inanimate object that you wait for no one. Sometimes I wonder if you really exist at all. If clocks and 24 hour days is just a mask you wear to disguise your invisibility; if you are truly infinite. I doubt I’ll find a place for you among the galaxies, or deep beneath the sea. This will mean that we will never actually catch up to you, and must instead appreciate your presence when it is near. Time. The only uninvited guest we hope will out stay his welcome.
The PBS Blog 