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Description
Time's sort of a funny thing. It drags its feet along, trailing slowly through the mud, but then you look back and it seems that it galloped by, hurtling past before you could even begin to comprehend what has happened. Then you sort of stand there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at all you've done, all you've seen, and how very little you've appreciated it all. You realize seasons have bloomed and faded, constantly renewing and dying. The calendar's ripped pages litter the floor, each day lying exposed like a valentine. There are photographs and songs you've memorized, the dreams you've written of and the souvenirs you've held to your chest. It's all right there, screaming before your eyes. Laughing. It seems to say, look what you missed! Look what you've wasted! Come, fall into me. Forget all the things you remember and remember all that you've forgotten. But you can't. You can't go back and you can't skip forward. You're not an old record, babbling on and on, rewound when needed. No, you're settled into this present. This now. You can fight with it forever, feeling it hang heavy over your head, or you can let it go, watching as it twists away into the morning light. You can just keep living.

There's more than one way to die.

Close your eyes and breathe. The season is already changing.

Description
Time's sort of a funny thing. It drags its feet along, trailing slowly through the mud, but then you look back and it seems that it galloped by, hurtling past before you could even begin to comprehend what has happened. Then you sort of stand there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at all you've done, all you've seen, and how very little you've appreciated it all. You realize seasons have bloomed and faded, constantly renewing and dying. The calendar's ripped pages litter the floor, each day lying exposed like a valentine. There are photographs and songs you've memorized, the dreams you've written of and the souvenirs you've held to your chest. It's all right there, screaming before your eyes. Laughing. It seems to say, look what you missed! Look what you've wasted! Come, fall into me. Forget all the things you remember and remember all that you've forgotten. But you can't. You can't go back and you can't skip forward. You're not an old record, babbling on and on, rewound when needed. No, you're settled into this present. This now. You can fight with it forever, feeling it hang heavy over your head, or you can let it go, watching as it twists away into the morning light. You can just keep living.

There's more than one way to die.

Close your eyes and breathe. The season is already changing.