Time ticks slowly, yet always at the same pace;

Sometimes quickly. It seems to change, depending

On how you spend it; who with; the mood you’re in.

It is an hourglass of immortality.

We are all assigned our own hourglass, though;

Our own clock which runs on its own time.

These are mortal. They might pause, briefly. They will stop.

Mine will stop soon.

I know this because I’m going to be the one that stops it.

You might see it, your pile of sand. Your life flashing before your eyes. Those seven minutes before you’re dead. I don’t want to see mine. Why would I relive what I’m dying from?

A broken clock is right twice a day.

That’s not strictly true. It might be an hour behind, and then it’s never right;

A stopped clock is true. Once I’m gone, this will not matter.

I’m an hour behind now, on borrowed time. Only a stopped clock is right twice a day.

I want mine to stop. Please.

Time is an illusion. A structure that society insists we need.

There are lots of these.

What if we took them away?

Photo courtesy of Lukas Blazek

Categories: PoetryTags: depression, Life, mental health, Mortality, Pressure, Time