For me time flows lazily or runs like a river swollen by heavy rain; I let it lull me into a weird sort of mellowness or drive me into a frenzy but no matter how I try to measure it, it never seems to run by the clock. It just flies away.
I sit on the couch and watch Dana, the fragile softness of her hand, the forlorn look, and for the first time I understand.
There is a time for everything. A time for the good and a time for the bad, a time for the things that you love and a time for the ones that you loath, a time to mourn what you have lost and a time for forgiveness.
These past few days I’ve had less and less time. Less time for myself, less time for the ones around me. Less time to wash away the sins of my vanishing acts. Less time to learn how beautiful certain days can turn out to be, what happiness can arise from the simple things, from things and people you have never expected to surprise you, from an impromptu picnic in the park, from a concert and a laughing penguin, from a summer shower or a copuple of bruschette and an omelet.
Then there is a time for letting go and forgetting. That’s when the storm comes and I learn not to wait anymore for all those things I will never receive from old boyfriends, from my students, from people I care about, whose only sin is that they were never prepared to see me for what I was. So there is also a time for cleaning up your life because after the storm, inevitably, the sun shines again and it is only those who know how to apologize that come back. And you know how to love them. Sincerely.
And then there is a time for doing nothing. That is my time, a time spent writing for hours in front of the computer, drinking several cups of cafe latte curled up on a chair with my hair in a pony tail, wearing the glasses that I so hate to wear in public, using the TV as a radio listening to the news instead of watching them, doing nothing around the house and stretching out on crisp clean sheets.
Because tomorrow it will be time to be proper, composed and an adult.