Time is a precious thing,
darling.
Time is the world,
yet time is nothing.
Time can be wasted,
and spent wisely all at once.
Time is one of those rare things,
that cannot be replaced.
Time has faith,
faith that you will do it right
the first time.
And will not need a redo.
But that's not how it works,
is it?
We decieve time.
We make mistakes.
Countless, countless mistakes.
And while we feel we are failing time itself,
while we sulk and cry,
time ticks on,
leaving no sympathy.
Time shows no pity,
and if anything,
this is what I admire most.
Because pity is weakness,
weakness I and time do not have.
Time has patience, but little,
from mili-seconds to hours.
And while I revail myself and flourish,
in what this 'time' is supposed to be,
I hate it.
I hate time.
I hate it for what it has done to me.
How it mocks me.
I hate it for not pausing and stopping
during my most intimate moments,
and for inching on and on when things are rough.
But mostly, how it taunts me with memories.
Precious memories,
the sweet, sweet cousin of time.
As time grows old and sparse,
memories live for ever,
in our minds,
always growing.
Memories feel pain,
and have the knowledge to know they must replay
themselves in difficult positions,
to enable us to make the right decision.
And as evil time progresses,
I hope memories do to.
And when I lay ill, old,
in my deathbed,
and my fine sand is coming to a peak,
I want there to be memories everywhere in my mind,
painting a zillion murals in the depths of my brain,
showing me the beauty and happiness
in the end of my time.