Ticking
In adolescence, I was forever praying for the clock to speed up. Never certain for what reason, other than for something different. For change. For some sort of progression from the emotional and social moors I appeared perpetually mired in. To better endure the dark midnights of the soul that ran consistently late for me, not arriving until two or three in the morning. Anything was better than to endure the endless monotony and boredom of a mid-adolescent Sunday afternoon.
So I would pray for the clock hands to move faster, for the seconds and minutes to tick away faster faster faster. Always faster. The prayers never appeared to be answered. The seconds would exhale in slow motion, and the minute hands would crawl around the dial.
But at some point, those prayers must have been answered. Because now the seconds fly by before I can call them to mind. A glance at a clock one moment and then a moment later shows that hours have gone by - or days. Now that I appear to be where I'm supposed to be, I would love for the seconds to go back to their normal speed, for the clocks to resume their usual leisurely waltz. But it appears to be too late. Perhaps the prayers are answered only gradually, and so the prayers today for time to move slower won't be answered for another twenty years or so.
And by then, perhaps I'll wish that they were moving faster again.
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