To the one they call Time:
Forgive the impertinence of this letter, but I’ve been told that you like receiving one of these every now and then. I’ve also been told that when your interest is piqued (which is rare), and your calendar is clear (which is never), you might actually write back. But listen, I don’t care about any of that. I just want you to know that I know what you’ve done.
I don’t mean to be provocative, to somehow elicit a reaction from you. I didn’t agree to any wager, if that’s what you’re thinking.
For the record, I think that getting a response from Time is a story we tell little children so they never give up on their dreams. I’ve never really heard of anyone who has ever heard from you. That’s not to say I don’t believe you exist. I know you’re there. You have too much to do and everywhere to be. I see you at work all around me.
Just this morning, you woke up a family of four, a very loving, loud, rambunctious sort, and took one of them away. They suspected it perhaps, but they cried all the same. “I wish we had more time,” the youngest said.
Then there was that moment in the hospital along Amsterdam, when the old’s man son finally said goodbye. “It’s time,” he told the doctor who had become their friend, on what would be the most beautiful day of the month.
And years back, do you remember? When that Friday felt like a Monday, when my favorite hydrangea wilted its last on the stoop, when I realized I would always be younger in every photo I had ever been in. “Time ran out,” I told myself, and stopped counting. Well, do you remember? That was you, too.
You’re a robber baron; a thief of many things. But I have to admire your cunning. Not even language can confine you.
Let me explain.
Time waits for no one, they say, but it’s never too early. There’s no time, or perhaps there’s never enough time, and yet we have it, we make it, and we waste it. Time runs away or it catches up, but it’s too slow. It’s also too short and too long, too soon and too late.
We find time, yet when it’s lost, there’s no regaining it. Time flies. It passes by, stands still, moves forward. The time is now, the time is right, but it’s wrong timing. Time is gold, so it’s precious. It’s the main thing, the only thing, everything, in fact. But it’s also an illusion.
Time is the longest distance between two places. It moves in one direction, yet there’s the past as well as the future. We kill time repeatedly, and time kills us in return, folding our bodies, and bringing us to our knees. Time heals all, too, they say. And then—but then—time’s up.
You begin and you end.
And your inconsistencies are maddening.
Days and nights run on a schedule. Our months circle back to the same names. The big clock chimes the same numbers over and over, and yet the centuries never repeat themselves. We measure our sleep in hours, and miss the ones we love in seconds. We describe infinity like we know what it means. As sure as the seasons, empires are built, one on top of the other. Walls crumble only to rise again on two strong legs. Ships sink deeper, deeper, deeper into the sea. No man’s land.
All of us have looked upon your face, yet we’ve never really seen you. I think you’re blurry around the edges, always slightly out of focus. I bet that if we turned the street corner and bumped into you, we wouldn’t recognize you despite all the art and literature made in your honor.
I fear this letter has become too long now, and I’m wondering where to send this. Do you have a place of residence? Or are you a nomad? Do you have a forwarding address? What did I want to tell you again?
Oh, yes.
I know what you’ve done, all the chaos you’ve engendered.
And here’s some unsolicited advice from someone who cares more than you think: Please. Pull yourself together.
Signed,
Chance