Thursday, December 27, 2012
I forgive you, Time
You keep outrunning me and running me down. I think you must have not many distractions. And very few interests beyond the marathon you keep running. No secret vices. No warm sympathies. Which makes it very hard to appeal to anything in you that might bring you to relent a little, to take a breather. Slow down.
It's not that I want you to run backwards, to bring back the dewy complexion I'm sure I once had, the easy elasticities of mind and body that I'm beginning to regret the stiffening of, the dearly departed I still miss. You change everything I've ever wanted to keep. You steal from me, make me late, and still expect me to get up when you say in the morning.
You are like an autistic housemate, innocent, idiot savant, and dense to the social niceties.
I feel wronged by you over and over. With no recourse for any compensation. I can't say "I forgive you" like a bargaining chip, hoping if we get along a little better you'll be a little easier on me. I know you will never reciprocate by saying you forgive me, too, for wasting you, beating you, killing you -- which makes me sound so violent and you so innocent, language (that crony of yours) being the unfair thing that it is.
I do not like you, Time, not entirely. You are not kind, not entirely.
But I have learned that forgiving lets me live with that. Rather than try to make it otherwise, rather than try to balance my accounts with you so that everything adds up, I can let some debts drop. You can never make up to me the things you've stolen from me, though you will bring me to moments I would never want to trade away. I will never catch up with you and you will be forever tick-tocking in my ear. I know I will waste you until the day I die, as you keep wasting me day by day. I will rage against you and still pray for more of you and let you go only at last when there is nothing left to forgive.