Do I have the time?

It’s a funny thing how we speak of you. It’s as if I own you and control you. The way I speak and think of you is a fallacy of my ancestors as well as my own. I have you, I cease you, I can amend you. I can put you in a sentence trying to contain you; make you less unruly. It might be an error of the languages we perfected across generations or a way to keep us all sane. We can fit you in a sentence and make it appear as somehow the world is orderly.

You’re not malleable, you pass me by even with my best intentions of stopping you. I can’t cease you yet I can say that I have you. I can only live with you and try to make peace with you. I can live in your excruciating paws and make the best of you on my good days. Or let you consume me on my bad ones.

Even when I think of you, time, you outsmart me. How do I reconcile all the things I could do with you? How can I trick you into believing that my existence matters? And I hope that it does and it will, everybody does. Without you, although it’s impossible and something that I can’t imagine, how could my life be so precious?

What I can do with you comes from my privilege. How I think of my future is a gift I was given by the system I happened to be born into. The community I was raised in was pure luck, but the opportunities I had been given were not. It was with your passing that I was given more than the others. I was given you in abundance it seems, so much so that I can think of you and me as I was, I am and I will. Even though I say ‘I’ you’re inseparable from me. And I hope we won’t part for decades to come.

Future is something that we thought of thinking of you, time. An abstract concept of our existence that hasn’t yet come. Us in the future makes us just a little bit less unsettled about growing old and finally giving up on a fight we’re doomed to lose. It’s a concept of you that has already become the past as I write it in the present that has already gone.

What can I do with you? I want to tell stories, write them, live them and share them with people who might be moved by them. You, time, are a part of every story we tell. You rule me as you rule the rest of us. I hope I will do you justice and the people who don’t have you as much as I do. I hope I can give you to others so they will have a bigger piece of you too.

I don’t have you, I can’t cease you, but maybe, just maybe I can give you to somebody else. Should I even try? There are people who have nothing and everything and they weren’t given you in abundance as I was. Am I stuck in my own delusion, thinking I can redistribute you? Maybe I am, like others before me, who taught me to speak of you this way.