Time

Jane.
An original written by Alexandra.

Morning Sun
Harold Knight (1874-1961)

I am enamoured with the notion
of being on the very brink of death,
being only a nudge away from a
permanent end and abandoning a
manifestation of existence my conscience
has ever known.

The flirtation with such extremity is
intoxicating and thrilling. The knowing
that decades of severe feeling, whether
good or bad, can obliterate into sheer
unimportance within a second, is
eerie and sobering to say the least.

We are indoctrinated with two polarising
schools of thought from a young age:
“we have all the time in the world” and
“life is short.” Ironically, the first is
often told to me by older adults, the latter,
by younger peers. Both thoughts as daunting
as each other. One’s concept of time seems
dependent on how much of it one has had.
Am I correct in thinking that the older one
becomes and the more of it is attained, the
more expansive the whole plane of ‘time’
appears? Myself and my younger peers have
experienced less time, however, it feels
more expensive, limited, finite – something
to be rationed and savoured. But, of course,
the inevitable disheartening and frustration
of aching to make the most of time and avoid
wasting it, settles in and terrifies us all.

Does one essentially grow too comfortable
with the currency of time? Too cavalier with
spending it, to the point where you have
infinite coins in the bank? Does one become
too accustomed with time being a friend? It
is always around and affords, apparently,
unlimited inventory? The belief that it could
abruptly cease is inconceivable.

The small amount of time I have experienced
thus far has been full to say the least. I have
sunk to the deepest floors, scratched the
sharpest of corners, flown through the thinnest
of altitudes, feeling emotions so profoundly.
It has both aged me and preserved me young.
The scope of feeling has matured me
at much faster rates, but has pushed me to
extremes that regress me to either a delighted
or distraught child.

Much like a child, I am intrigued with
what is dangerous, explaining why you
may find me at death’s brink often. I
am still yet to determine if time is my
ally or enemy. She conjures great visions
I have for myself in the future, but
she frightens me with how fleeting
yet enduring she is. How she can so
convincingly be both is a marvel and
not something I readily understand.
And we all tend to fear what we do
not understand.

Hypnotic is the pendulum that swings,
unforgiving is the time it takes for
it to do so. If one desires it enough,
time will not adhere, and nobody
stands one chance. So, I say this
as firmly to you, reader, as I do
to myself: consider, ponder, imagine.
You can take all the time you desire,
as our elders have prophesised, and
be glad you can. For when you believe
your time has come, then and there
declares the very moment she transfigures
from friend to enemy. And she is the
most ruthless of enemies.  

The Girl at the Window (1919)
Mary Evans