I need more time. Who decides when the hours we use should shift into days, and from there find their way into weeks and then months? Almost a stumble, despite the sun’s rise and the moon’s silver fade. A lethargic descent of light into black, the stars that ascend almost piggy-back their position onto dusk’s purple scale. Each day’s subtle end, and the night’s drifting rise, resemble a play performed for the first time. Awkward, jumpy, long and then short, the seasons deciding these stops and their starts. Held hostage, we are, to such few fickle muses. The advent of frost, and the spring’s glistening dew, a cyclical pattern that demands our assent. If we refuse and play coy, what choice do we have? Time gives us few options. Put on a sweater, or take off that coat. I need larger lags. I want longer days. I demand hot lengthy nights that open themselves up to what I might inject.
I need more time. Sometimes, most times, this one selfish wish feels more like a stray taunt. I’m cursing the seasons, then expecting some backtalk. Raging in vain against each year’s rapid sway. Only yesterday, kindgarten’s front doors opened themselves up to my whimpering sobs, while just last week I first stepped into Cambodia’s heat, that metallic fresh stink of fresh diesel and dust. Tomorrow, an old folks’ home will embrace and hold up my doddering steps, while next year my grave will be freshened by flowers and rain. I demand time and its minions, those stealthy small bandits, to stop stealing those moments I neglect to revere. Give them back, all those gaps. If you do, I will stop questioning your tick and profaning your tock.
I need more, time.
