The days are long. Endless. They drag on forever. Well, unless they are days of the weekend. Weekend days seem to go a little faster. But work days? Normal days? They drag on so long, sometimes I think I will never get through them. I long to close my eyes and let the time wash over me without my awareness. I am weary of counting the seconds and minutes. Weary of doing so many things I have to, but don’t want to do.
The years, however, oh my! The years are short. They whiz by, time spinning like a ceiling fan on high speed. They march along, month by month, ripping pages from the calendar and leaving them scattered about in my memory. A year is quickly spent. Suddenly evaporated. Then ten. Twenty. Where did the time go? How did so many years escape so rapidly and without notice…until I looked back abruptly to find they were gone without a trace?!?
The days are long. The clock ticks unhurriedly, second after second after second, painstakingly meandering around the dial. The minutes accumulate at a snail’s pace. I feel their weight. They are a heavy burden, one building upon another. When I finally lay my head down on my pillow at night, it is with a sigh of relief and a prayer for a better, lighter, less tortured tomorrow.
How is it that seconds seem to pass more slowly than minutes? That minutes pass more slowly than hours? That hours pass more slowly than days? That days pass more slowly than months? That months pass more slowly than years? That years pass more slowly than decades? And that it all flies by in less than the blink of an eye or the beat of a heart.
I am frightened by how sluggish the minutes pass and how dawdling are the days. I am terrified by how hastily the years have raced by me leaving me so little time ahead. At how the decades have passed at super-sonic speed. I have accumulated far too many decades without ever living a moment of them.
How can a day be so full of things that must be accomplished, but the years so void of progress?
Life is built by minutes that are boulders and decades that are sand. Boulders that are heavy and hard. Sand that washes from my hand, instantly wiped away without a trace. I was a girl of 16 who turned her head but once, only to then find myself suddenly transformed into a woman of 50. Sand. All that sand. I lived the boulders; they were harsh and painful, but nothing came of them. Or everything came from them; perhaps that is the problem. I only know, I didn’t get to live the sand. It was gone before I even knew it had arrived. Washed back out to sea.
Existing through the tedious minutes. One by one by one. Trying in vain to hold back the rapidly fleeing years.
The days are long. The years are short.
Life is but a second long.