I threw a month away today. I wadded it up into a paper ball and I dropped it into the trash.
The thinness of my calendar does something to my gut. Because there is this month, and then one more, and then I will be 21.
I can't be 21.
I wasn't even a teenager. I wasn't even 20. I have nothing to show for my past two decades of life--nothing big or glamorous.
When your eyes fall heavy on a train, and your breathing slows and head begins to droop, only your subconscious can tell that time is passing, the way you are passing through space, from point A to point B.
But you don't know.
When you open your eyes with a start from the jolt of the train as it rumbles on the tracks, you are suddenly in a whole new place. In the space of a second.
My clock reads 9:01 PM, but my heart insists it is only afternoon, and there is still some day left to be lived. Time, unfortunately, is not in the habit of listening to me.
The thinness of my calendar does something to my gut. Because there is this month, and then one more, and then I will be 21.
I can't be 21.
I wasn't even a teenager. I wasn't even 20. I have nothing to show for my past two decades of life--nothing big or glamorous.
When your eyes fall heavy on a train, and your breathing slows and head begins to droop, only your subconscious can tell that time is passing, the way you are passing through space, from point A to point B.
But you don't know.
When you open your eyes with a start from the jolt of the train as it rumbles on the tracks, you are suddenly in a whole new place. In the space of a second.
My clock reads 9:01 PM, but my heart insists it is only afternoon, and there is still some day left to be lived. Time, unfortunately, is not in the habit of listening to me.