The construct of time is everything and nothing.
There are a few small hours in certain days that pass more rapidly than I want.
If I am careful the hours stretch like dough silky smooth willing to give as much as needed. And I knead but am not needed. I have not solved the puzzle of why me and not someone else… there are plenty of others there always are, never fool yourself, never lie. I tell myself little stories of plausibilities and stop my capitualting with sadly simple truths. Actions tell a different story than words ever will.
There is a tender place inside of every living thing, it drives us toward irrational thinking. I pretend I have clad this space in armor and thorns. But in these hours the eyes it does not have peer through the tangle wondering if someone has come to break it free only to be reminded as it presses toward escape by a sharp jab which sends it crashing backward away from the light.
Perhaps I am wrong to cage such a wild beast. I let it run amuck once I cannot say I regret it but I can say that I learned much as a participant observer. So that now when my neurons fire and my pulse dances in my veins I check myself looking for chinks in the chainmail or holes in the thorny hedgerow.
The problem I fear is not so much that there is a beast, but rather it is being tamed. For there is warmth that builds in these hours and it radiates through a frozen core making me want to shed the caging and trim the thorny growth.