by Lindsay Griffiths
I’ve come to see time for what it is:
Rapidly passing.
A thing that,
Though it consistently speeds by,
Doesn’t necessarily correlate with progress.
I read somewhere that “time is fleeting”
And, as I grow older,
I find that to be more and more true.
Just yesterday I was five years younger.
So I’m afraid.
Now that I’m better acquainted with
Time’s inability to wait,
Time’s obsessive compulsion
To keep constantly running,
I’m afraid it’ll pass me by
And I’ll find that I’m old
And haven’t accomplished anything I wanted to,
Or lived out my dreams,
Or wandered outside my comfort zone,
Or loved like I was supposed to,
Or treated people right.
I’m afraid I’ll evolve,
Or devolve, into
A person I never wanted to become.
That I’ll look in the mirror and be horrified
That the fairytale life I now aspire to
Is just an early morning dream that occurs
Right in between slumber and wakefulness,
That is interrupted by the pale sunlight
Grating through the worn blinds,
That is interrupted by the sad reality
That overtook me while I got distracted,
And Time ran past me and far ahead of me
Until I was too far behind to ever catch up.
Time is fleeting,
And I’m terrified it’s going to leave me behind.
