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.