IT’S ABOUT TIME

My time is very different from your time.

I have heard your time referred to as a river, a smooth continuum, a flow if you will.

How very strange.

You see, there is no flow to my time. My time is not on a continuum. If your time is a slow-moving river of ice, then mine is a random group of icebergs that have calved from the glacier’s front wall and are distinctly unique, adrift on a calm sea. When born in your glacier, one berg, one memory, appears fused cheek by jowl with another, but out on my ocean it’s every berg for itself.

For you, my internal clock must be a thing of terrifying beauty. With memory and time all a jumble, tenses for me are tenuously terminal. What was, what is, and what will be all share a common weight. They are all ephemeral. Just out of reach. One berg just barely visible on the horizon. One step away from being real.

Which, of course, brings up the issue of time codependency. I long ago realized my time is not your time. As I am acutely aware of the difference between the two, I, of course, defer to your time, figuring that there are so many more of you than me. So, I end up borrowing your time. You don’t seem to mind, and it makes my life ever so much easier.

You say, “Meet me at 8:00”. If I manage to remember the meeting at all, you can be damn sure I will be there before you, because it’s the least I could do for having borrowed your time.

After all, there is no reason for me to be rude just because your sense of time is all fucked up.

Welcome to my world.

It’s about time.