I am not done with this day, I still haven't coloured around its corners, or polished its edges. Every night I resist this closure with a vague sense of failure. Today if anything was another unfulfilled promise. A kind of dysfunctional urgency takes grip over me. A breathlessness that makes me more anxious than anything else. I still haven't figured it out and now I have one day less. I'm painfully conscious of each grain of sand-dust dropping as my hourglass stands erect, defiant and uncontrollable. Maybe that is what it means to be at peace - to not having a desperate sense of a destination. But I'm in this tearing hurry, like that rabbit who ignored Alice as it tumbled gracelessly down the hole.
Even writing these words, is nothing but a half hearted attempt to bargain with the relentless flow of time. Pushing against its force makes it only push back harder. I imagine that if time were a wise old woman she would smile vaguely, amused by these childish negotiations with mortality.
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