Time’s Autobiography • • • Nicole Flanagan

The bittersweet symphony of life.

Time. A double edged sword which marks all living things, deliberately scaring scarring us with an insatiable desire to understand it. Lifetimes pass only to realize we cannot. We go on, surviving under an ambiguous countdown of our very existence. Not quite sure what to make of it, not quite sure what meaning to believe in.

Oh, to be unaware; to be a soft, thoughtless rabbit perusing the sweet, flowery meadows with only the most basic instincts and needs. We grow up nonchalantly brushing off our parent’s pleas pleads to stop getting older. To appreciate where we are, because one day, the cruel nature of life will knock you off your feet, leave you stunned by harsh anxieties and broken hearts, and cripple you with an array of seemingly impossible challenges.

Time weaves together to taunt you when she wants to and to heal you when she decides to. She juxtaposes herself, watching you soak your pillow with relentless tears as you beg her to skip to the good part- to fast forward to a place and moment where the pain is left in the past, where it’s no longer actively working against you, where you have conquered it. She doesn’t. She slowly passes you by as you battle each day as fiercely as you can with the little strength you have left. She toughens you as she weakens you. She leaves you with little choice but to persevere.

Suddenly, after tireless effort when old problems are now old and you’re all bandaged up from past wounds, she creeps up during your most authentic times. Perhaps you met the love of your life. Or reconnected with old friends in a new city. Maybe you are excelling in your field of work. That’s when she decides to hit the gas, go full throttle. The sweetest victories are the most fleeting of moments. So much so that you learn to breathe it into your soul, to recognize that this present moment will be one that nestles into the files of your mind to create a home in your future daydreams. It will be amongst a collection of “perfect” evocations, ready to be summoned until Time gradually devours it, leaving you no longer able to reminisce or relive it.

In times of distress, loved ones will remind you that time goes on, that there is much life to live. In moments of carefree wanderlust, friends will shout that life is short. We craft our ideals concerning Time based on our own and other’s convenience. Because somewhere within us, we all know the time we’re worried about, the time we’ve interpreted is man-made. And humans are imperfect, flawed. So time haunts us, residing someplace constant in our minds, triggering our fear; our hope; our nostalgia; our amnesia; our uncertainty; our pain. She lusts to be everything and everywhere despite being invisible and intangible. She’s what we make of her- a complex, messy, life-long, ticking time bomb of an ultimatum.

And we can do nothing but allow her to sink her teeth in and enjoy the taste of our blood, sweat, and tears. Oh, to be a soft, perusing rabbit. To be simplistic and unmarked by the sword of Time. To stay young, free, detached from the shackles of the Grandfather Clock of all Clocks. She may be cruel and sweet and all things under the sun, but as everything else, she ends too.