Time stands still for no-one. The indisputable fact of life that infects every existence. What is our obsession with time?
Now time, past time, about time, every time and now simply running out of time.
It’s now time for my life to begin, the simultaneous move into adulthood and the world itself. My childish ways fade discreetly, silently into the background. Should I mourn them? I ask this simply because I do. I mourn the simplicity, yet hold anticipation for the future on my tongue like a forbidden fruit.
It is past time you stop sneaking out of windows and over walls, Anna. Start making an effort, Anna. Don’t take everything for granted, Anna. They tell me I’m an adult now apparently.
It’s about time I start acting like one, I suppose.
However, every time I consider this notion, an undeniable, turbulent confusion comes to its resting place inside my mind. This is because, well, I realize nobody actually knows how to be an adult.
“You’re running out of time, Anna.”
Aren't we all?