Ella Frances Sanders



I know that every single person with the ability to string two coherent thoughts together has reached this conclusion before, but today it's hitting me with a renewed sense of ouch.

Time, the beastly yet beautiful thing, can never be grasped. When you have too much of it, it goes slowly, dragging its hands through the mud and threatening to grind to a halt completely. And when you don't have enough of it, it's gone before you even had time to glance at the clock. 

Time, after all our measuring and aligning and rushing about, is really only an illusion. Yet we cannot exist without it, which leaves us straining to understand, walking around with time-telling devices strapped to our wrists so that we may never miss one millimetre of the second hand's measured dance. It gives a rhythm to our days that we would otherwise long for, and gives us somewhere to slot the minutiae that we are made up of.

It's always alarming to realise that we have so little of it, to realise that as we get older, days and years will pass by comparatively faster, and that while we want some uncomfortable things to be over as soon as possible, for others several lifetimes would never be enough.

Therein lies my problem of today, as I have hours to fill until I can sleep again, and the expanse feels unusually empty.