Time seems to fall through my fingers though I know it is time I would not count by. Time for me would be marked by sunsets and twilights, by moon phases and wind shiftings. Machiavellian time. Time marked by cups of coffee offered to friends.
When running to other clocks we become caricatures. I am white rabbits and date books. Patience becomes the golden rule because I cannot have what I want. Now is not my time now.
What I am here to do is reach for my ideals. I am here to prove to random chance that I will live to be old. I am here to prove to time that it cannot take away my dreams, so humble. A garden of native plants, edibles, faerie attracting flowers to laugh with. A compost for worms to feed on. A place of beauty where sun dapples and wind hushes over me. There are cabins. They live in my memory. They live in my future.
Time seems to fall through my fingers, though I know it is time I do not count by. I mark time by eggshells, red winged black birds, seeds unfurling. Time in these clocks are made of machines. My fingers are made of my dreams.