An Inventory of Lost Hours

Time has lost its meaning to me…

It's not minutes or hours that are slipping. It's weeks and months that I can see draining through my palms, grain after grain till I'm left with the crystals of regret, sharp with what if?

I can feel the clock ticking, the hands moving faster.

The age where time felt infinite is long gone.

Now it only holds me accountable. Accountable for all the things I could have done, but didn't.

I vividly remember afternoons which dissolved into nothing, time racing, the sunlight on the floor stretching endlessly as I sit and promise myself five minutes only for it to pass in the blink of an eye.

How I long for those days when I had to wait with infinite patience just for the day to end.

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The clock is very deceptive isn't it?

Carving something so infinite into neat little numbers, into something we can measure.

It makes time appear so solid…so tangible.

Only for me to find that it's like catching the calm moonlight on the raging sea.

Is that the meaning of time, that it isn't supposed to be caught only experienced?

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I can't rot away. I can't let every grain fall.

I'll try to hold on to them.

Even if they're sharp.

Even if it cuts.

Even if it makes me bleed.

Even if I have to pretend it didn't.

Thank you for reading 💖