Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

I don’t have time for finishing, I don’t have time for the start

There has never been enough time in the entire period of my life that can convince me to separate the allusion from the illusion of its grand context ideally presented to those who think it exists. Holding on to it when they have nothing to do, believing that it’s pointing its finger indirectly at idyllic horizons where all the dices will fold and everything leading up to that moment will be worth the patience. Time was never there for me when I was most searching for its presence. It was running out of nowhere to manipulate me by giving me false hope and then turned its back. It wasn’t there to keep me, to push me off a cliff, and to catch me as if I were special. Rarely did it knock on my door to give me advice on how to fill it when I was empty. No, it was looking through my cavities and making me feel like I depend on it, changing me into the same people, so I need to hang on to its threads like another puppet on the set stage, as a target for mockery and some admiration reactions. I began to get drawn to the idea of ​​the time, out of the fear that it would leave me every time it entered my forbidden comfort zone. I needed it more and more, like air, that I worried too much that I would lose it, that it would leave me and throw it under my feet as another used puppet. And whenever I feel it moving away, I feel desperate and self-destructive, fearing that every step is further and further away. And with so much need for it, I think I’m pulling it away from myself, so I pull it up to my sleeve and steal from others, draw everything I can to drag it back. And, when I think that it’s using me to fulfill its quota of losers, the hysteria and panic take the form of a once patient man, and I become another time addict. I cannot lower my guard when I’m in its presence, and it can so easily overcome me by unpredictability. I doubt it, and it’s only a matter of time before it will surprise me with something different from everything it has prepared for me. I am usually on the lookout for its hidden motives, plunged into over-thinking that always boils down to finding the time to give time to convince me to do it right. But I don’t fit into its flow, because I’m a slave to a ruthless time machine that swallows and rattles me, pulling my strings and transporting me to every bit of the past that I thought was forgotten. A loner in time, along with it, and I have a great deal of him, then I don’t have it anymore, I run out of it because I’m one of those who suffocate in reality. Why is it so difficult for me to demand that my rights be respected? Am I a good person because I think of time more than myself? Or is it too obvious that it doesn’t think much of me at times when I desperately need it to direct me? I’m too self-conscious to show others how I’m losing it, and in front of it, I am tiny and humble. I want to get the best out of time, and yet accept second-hand. And it certainly sees me as a tense emotional man who doesn’t know how to cope with his mentality. When I can’t get to the time, I get frustrated, so I quit, but I’m desperate for it. I don’t admit that to anyone. Rarely have I been able to stick to time, so now I don’t have time for finishing, I don’t have time for the start.

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