(Written during my month absence – and probably when I was short on time)
Time is a bitch. It’s a saying i’ve convulsed at before, the harsh adjective jarring my thoughts and creasing my lips. But it is – with all the negative connotations that a female dog barks out. Because it is elusive, it slips through your fingers like elastic particles of air. You strive and stress and worry about something for several months, only for the culmination of all those hours to pass by in the flutter of an eyelash, the inhalation of a snatched breath, the drummed tap of chipped painted nails on a tea stained desk. Time isn’t concerned with the energy it has taken you to think, and scheme, and plan, and create. It just moves by – appearing to waddle slowly through a crowded high street, but really she’s sprinting, then crawling, then flying, and then she stops – but you’re suffering from so much motion sickness you don’t even notice – it’s the shades that move alongside you who do, and they mourn, for a time, before she carries them away too.