Thief Of Time

Time is accelerating...

I am a recidivist. A resipiscent one, maybe, but nevertheless, a recidivist. I am not one who pilfers the chattels of another. Neither am I one to conform to pernicious activities capable of eroding my sanity. No, I commit another form of crime. I steal the one thing belongs to everyone, calling it my own and throwing it into the recesses of my past. I am responsible for stashing away what has been presented to me by spacetime, thinking that its full potential has been unleashed in the present moment. I am undetectable, conducting my operations when one least expects me too. I am a thief of time.

It is a wonder that cops have yet to catch me and put me in jail, for I have, over the years, kidnapped most of the seconds that strut pass me. The minutes, the hours, the days - they march by slowly, hesitant of going my way. They crawl, they slide, they hide. Yet, I always manage to catch them. During my younger days, I'd stop them in their tracks by pouncing on them, jumping, shooting them with powerful water guns and even paralyze them with shrieks that could break any glass. As the years pass by, I start opening books to suck time in, proving this method nearly as effective as time-killing black holes itself.

To my utmost horror, Darwin's law of evolution also holds true for this thing we call time. It has now become the predator to my existence, moving with such velocity and vigour which could put any cheetah or race car to shame. I did not give in. I tried to capture the flying moments, translating events into words, creating meaning from an obfuscated flurry of a continuum of memories that form after each second. What I call "Now" quickly transforms itself into the previous frame of time. Everything I once deemed as "Future" is coming at me faster than the speed of light without the slightest pause.

Still, I tried to catch this monster.

I couldn't accept the truth soon enough. My stupidity remains unmatched to this moment. Time is now an untamed creature running amok, racing itself against light to reach a finish line that humans wish we couldn't see from where we are now. Time is pressing against me, punishing me for what I've done in my younger days. Time is not to be wasted, not to be caught; it is meant to be experienced to its fullest potential, allowing an individual to live life more than it ought to be. It can only be recorded as but a mere fragment of our fading moments and memories, most of which do not match up to the experience itself. Even then, penning down these precious times are wasting the present time itself, which could be used to save the world or something less exaggerating. Actions speak louder than words.

It is obvious that I have not been properly immortalizing events in my life this year, indicating either overproductivity or the other end of that spectrum. I have not been successfully capturing this elusive thing called time, instead, utilizing it in ways only a procrastinator could understand. Now, I would no longer remain a thief of time. I'm going to race it until I can race no more.

And hopefully, win.