Time
Time slips past me every second, every minute, like a flash gone before too long. Yet, in all that lost time, I still feel the same. What is time lost if not time spent on nothing? Still, I try to make the time count—the minutes, the seconds—but no matter how much I try to stay in the flow, it always eludes me. Such is a thing you want and cannot have, for you chase and chase only to watch it go further away.
Time, the great divider, knows not rich or poor, life or death—only a presence, a willingness to keep moving, and for nothing more than to end. Thus is its purpose, its goal. Yet, in all that, we try to make sense of what we have, to make memories, to mark the time, the days with events both great and small. We capture photos to hold time in our hands, record moments to remember that day. But even though those moments may be ingrained, they are not permanent, and that's the thing with time.
Man or machine, living or dead, time ticks on until those last few seconds.
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