March 22, 2000: Pick which battle I choose to lose
A minute equals a lifetime—how many can we keep borrowing? The ticks that run away cast shadows onto empty paths. Decisions, far to many to decide which is most important. Eyes closed, the hand reaches into the empty box—pulling from it’s the next ambition. The brown mantle clock continues to stare at me. An enemy this timekeeper has become—beyond anger, no rainbow or thunderstorm. If it seems so important to keep me inside these boundaries, why not teach this hand to stop writing? Suddenly…there’s silence.