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On Time

The everyday is not like every day used to be.

When I was younger I pictured time as this gigantic, bulbous cloud I could only touch or be shrouded in when I was taller and older. When I was younger time hadn’t yet imprisoned me, it left me out of its race like I had already won it. Even so I was still deciding if I was a runner, whether I could be any good at running. Naturally I thought I was free. Nobody else was running. They all stayed still in the practice of not yet beginning (or then ending). I liked their company and my own. 

I was to learn I was quite wrong. The every day is not a bulbous cloud forsaking the rain, it’s a wild, doleful beast looking to be tamed. It asks you to lead it into wellness with an aggressive grin and helpless tic in the eye. In my twenties I am distracted in the mornings deciding which is its best feature. The everyday knows I am philosophical because it made me this way. My sense of description does not rely on a logic of events but moods. The everydays belonging to others are plot-based. I realize I do not like company very much, or movement, or stillness. I am very aware of what I do not like. 

We often play this game. I do not know who I will wake up as in the morning, and the everyday seems to like me for my capriciousness for it is the only excellent trait we share. We both make up dreams for each other like we were lifelong friends or something. I try not to let it know when I am disappointed, and secretly mimic its orientations, letting some self of mine happen with pauses.