Time Eater

As of late, I have found myself hungrily fascinated with time. This seems like a vague, laughable sentiment, as time is fascinating by its very nature - but I am ravenous for its every intricacy. Take, for instance, how it defies its own linear notions with a past I cannot escape. My memories lock into each other, fracturing and fragmenting like the segments of a dragon curve, and as I trace the dust off the happier ones, I find myself back where I started. The Möbius strip is a deceptive shape, and the mind is an opportunistic liar. Still, I find myself beguiled by the limits of relativity. 

The future terrifies me. Before I took antipsychotics, the mere idea of having one to myself seemed impossible. I was too manic to care, too depressed to think I’d make it that far - and now that stability is within my grasp, it alienates me. Am I alone in how futureless I feel, desperate for a plan now that I can see a glorious expanse of years before me? It all seems wrong, too slow and much too fast to helplessly cling to as my thoughts spiral further into adulthood. I have no choice but to gingerly try to live in the present once again. 

I must remember that every moment is worth as much as any other, that pleasure and beauty are not confined to a heavy tilt of their superimposed importance. When light filters through the glass on the door, that is beauty. When the wind makes the hairs on my forearms rise, that is pleasure. I must be content with every day, finding dreams and diamonds in my own sleep-crusted eyes. Praised be the present for all that it teaches me. 

Let me feast on seconds, minutes, hours; anything will satisfy me. Curiously chronophagous, I will catalogue each anticipated flavour, each extended aftertaste. I want to sink my teeth into its essence. Devouring my future and regurgitating my past; open from my mouth to my heart to the ephemeral present - I am a time eater.