The months roll out, from one to the next as though they are on a conveyor belt that never stops churning, relentless. And yet with that persistent steady beat, why does the passing of time seem to change pace from minute to minute, month to month, year to year?
Why does a summer last an eternity when we are young, but fly by past the speed of sunlight now? I realise that when we are little, one season can be a big slice within the greater whole of our lifetime so far, making it feel virtually endless. And the longer we live, the smaller that slice becomes respectively, until it is little more than a sliver. It's all relative, I suppose.
But it is astounding how much it seems to fluctuate, even as the gears in the clock click and turn with such sustained precision. How odd that I can wake up on a beautiful Sunday morning, believing that the day is stretched out before me like a magic carpet, the hours long and abundant... and then so suddenly I find myself in the dark of night wondering how it was that the day just slipped right through my fingers. Just like sand through the hourglass.
Why does it feel as though Christmas happened ages ago, yet I still have little white lights around my window frame? Couldn't have been that long ago.
Why can't the ticking of my brain fall in sync with the ticking of the clock? What a trickster, that Father Time. I'm tired of being teased.