when time is short

When time is short, seconds slip by like slimy Jello through your fingers.  Minutes flow around your head like the breeze from an open car window as it hurtles down the highway.  Days come into view and disappear around the corner of the calender.  The thread of your existence gets pulled through a knothole of change, dragging against the edges, and yanked on by Fate or Destiny or Doom.  You try to hold on desperately, tying together the experiences you think are necessary.  Every frantic tug is answered by a stronger one from the other side.

When time is short, its droplets are tangy sweet and sour, that burn your tongue and throat, but you don't want it to end.  Every bite is bitter.  Every mouthful a penance for the past and the future, that were and will be so smooth and cool.

When time is short, silence closes in on your ears, muffling even your own heart.  As much as it races in distress, the sound is blocked out the deafening stillness of an end.

When time is short, every breath is full of razor blades.  Every meal is mud and broken glass.  Every word spoken is a hammer on your stomach and an ocean on your soul.  Your guts get run through the wringer over and over and over again.

When time is endless, it sleeps on the grass in the sun, dozing, snoring, swishing its tail like a calm and contented cow.  When time is short, it runs from you.  It hides and dodges, cackling and sneering.  You reach and it vanishes before your eyes, just an illusion of substance.  When time is short, it rushes over the hills with its head high and eyes bright, and it never looks back.