I used to get angry at the audacity of Time. The audacity to assume its power over my life in the same way it assumed its power over thousands of slave clocks for hundreds of years.
The audacity as it watched me sob, watched me pain, watched me wither into a fragment of my former self without stopping the hands on the clocks to make me forget for eternity. Its sadistic nature to slow down the moments of darkness to prevent the light break through sooner and mocking me with every tormented second passing through the fibres of my being, slowing down the blood in my veins to carry less life-giving oxygen to the remaining lucid cells in my brain. Its arrogant jeering as it made me relive the moments I believed would last for eternity, over and over and over again, slowly, painstakingly, cruelly. The bewitched spells as it watched me age before my time into a woman who’s hands I no longer recognise and who’s passion and will to defy the odds disappeared into oblivion.
But I am no longer angry with Time. Not because I miraculously accepted the cliched wisdom of giving things time. No. We don’t give things to Time in any case. Time takes things from us.
No. I stepped right inside it. Connecting my ageing fibres into its rhythmic beat, sapping it from energy as I discovered my pristine and perfect stolen memories and pains stashed on its junkie shelves, timeless and unharmed. It was not all lost. Both good and bad still coexist on the same shelves of Time and I can pick at them and smile at any moment I so feel. I have learnt to pick the good ones only. And leave the addict with the bad ones as I realise the only thing that will eventually come to an end is time itself, fed by its hunger for bad fixes and cheap cheats.