" Time passes, even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes slowly, in dragging lulls and uneven lurches, but pass it does, even for me."
New Moon
by: Stephenie Meyer
I think this passage even though I didn't get it all the way accurate, (straight from the book) has a lot to do with me right now.
Time. The thing we dread the most yet somehow wish we had more of. Time for me doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore except the one thing I know I can't have, yet still yearn for almost every second of every day. That thing is already lost to me. It probably disappeared into the black hole that is already sucking out the good and important in my life. I suppose that I shall soon be a living balloon, alive but empty, only filled with the presence of empty memories that are enough to sustain it, until slowly, one by one, the memories fade till only the pain of not remembering them is left. But all to soon that will leave too. Where will I be in that? A dead shriveled piece of plastic? I certainly hope that I won't end up deflated and shriveled past comprehension, though, at the piece in which the important pieces of my life are fluttering away, so quickly, I don't doubt that it will soon come to that. I want to rest. I want to lift off over the trees and let loose, float away to inexistence, in lalaland, where I will stay the same. Never too lose any part of me again. But that is just a dream of a dream. Maybe someday, when my memories fade, or become reality again, that dream won't seem so impossible. I have a long way to go, and I will make use of the time that I have, always wishing and dreaming for something different.
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