tell me about it

My entire week is spent rushing towards the weekends, and my entire weekend is spent wishing that Monday wouldn’t roll around quite so soon. That being said I’m deeply grateful to whoever created the Roman calendar, because I’m glad they didn’t decide on ten-day weeks and six-week months.

Fifteen-month years.

But now and then I stop myself in the midst of a day spent wishing earnestly for the weekend, and I wonder why I can’t just luxuriate in the here and now and the strong harsh suddenness of the present. Why do I spend my time wishing I was sometime else?

I can’t seem to grasp the transience of each fleeting moment. It won’t thunk into my palm with any sort of reassuring solid weight, and I can just feel each second brushing my fingertips in a cruel, teasing catch-me-if-you-can. Frustrating, how it bugs me in the same sort of almost-there way as when you have a word or a name on the tip of your tongue, on the edge of your mind, and you’re almost there! but you can’t get your head around it as it flits just out of your reach.

Slipping out of your clutch like a fat oily pig, the ruthless ebb and flow.

Why should there be sixty seconds in a minute, and not some other arbitrary number?

I wonder if I’ll ever learn to appreciate the here and now and stop hunkering hungering after the minute that comes after the minute that comes next. Perhaps when I find quiet satisfaction, contentment, peace.� Maybe when the future doesn’t hold so many secrets in her tightly-clenched selfish little hands, when I’ve pried her fingers open and pulled out every single one and there aren’t any surprises left.

Maybe then I’ll wish I was back in the past, and I’ll fret about minutes and hours and days squandered running towards the finish line - where I’ll stand about with my shoulders drooped, arms foolishly raised towards absolutely nothing at all, and ask, “That’s it?”

“That’s all there is to it?”

Hundred-minute hours.