fourth year zara inam

“Dear Time,

As I get older, I disguise the disappointment of aging with the reassurance that there is no change. As the clock strikes 8:36, I dig inside for some sort of indication that any part of me has grown. Each year, the number gets bigger and it takes 363 days before I can come to terms with my new identity.

Constantly, consistently, continually I watch the hands of the clock slow down until I have to convince myself of their phantom movements. I am held hostage by my own expectations; I think I created them many years ago.

But yesterday felt like 2019, and it is possible that by tomorrow morning I may be 30. Dear time, I am worried. I wonder if my message will reach you soon enough, but by your taunting standards my time frame diminishes. . .”

Somewhere between 5 and 6 I looked at the clock on the wall and watched the shadows dance around the room. And when the sun had tucked itself away, I saw the hands of the clock nailed to the wall, somewhere between 5 and 6.

As I dig deeper, I find myself struggling between looking for answers, forgetting these dilemmas, and desiring to not care at all. And in this pensive silence, “there comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart.”

Every day spent in quiet deliberation shuts me out from living each moment. Dear time, I’ve spent eternity writing to you, only to realize how I’ve watched life slip away.

I put down my pen and shut the notebook. Reaching up to the wall, I grabbed the clock off it’s hinge and tucked it away in the back of my closet. Standing here, I remain in the middle of everything, and whether or not I choose to ponder the ticking in the back of my closet, all else will continue – including me. My letter remains unfinished and constantly, consistently, continually, I will come to peace with the idea.

A Letter to Time