Ludicrous Wishes

A futile attempt in catching our greatest dream.

Last night at the symphony, I craved to own a sliver of time. I wished to pick up one note, one set of measures and hold on to it, understand it, make it mine. While the conductor flailed and danced with his arms and legs, all I thought was to shout « freeze » and sink into the pillowy softness I imagine stopping the present could be. 

As the night moved along, punctuating the written silence, people coughed; it brought everyone back. I also wished to yell at them, they were stealing what I wanted to be mine. 

Forever ago, I began oscillating between doing and dreaming. I never paused at the middle ground, the precious space that allowed those two to swing through. I never learned to slow down. If I sink into my thoughts, I remember winding the clock, daring to hope it’d move faster than it should. Can I unwind it now, take back some of what was lost in the abyss?

I once read about the birth of time. I don’t remember the book, but I recall the visual clearly. An old man discovers a clock. How fitting. When I imagine an old man with a long beard and wise eyes, I see hope to relive the past. Perhaps the book is right, perhaps nostalgia is the very nature of this fleeting construct? 

Despite the sureness of losing the present, I still try to hold on, try to teach myself how to light up my brain, how to taste, hear, feel and absorb it all. When all hope is lost, will I succeed and bounce into the very memories that led to the end? Will I even know when the half-life of happiness has passed? 

Every step is a loss, never to be recuperated again. In this obscure race, the days slink by and they’re hardly noticed. Joy and love and sadness all swirl together as the desperate dance between what’s going and what’s gone becomes the same. 

I’ve asked my therapist, my partner, other wise people I meet; how do we hold on? The response rarely differs: just be. This is what confuses me, where I lose hope and don’t understand - how do teach myself to « just be »? My partner and other wise men have told me « stop trying ». How do I stop trying to accomplish my greatest mission, the dream to end all dreams? 

But perhaps the people at the symphony who cough have a reason to. Without the excruciating interruptions, we’d get lost without an anchor, fly away in our thoughts and the seconds would feel even less real. Perhaps the people who cough are the middle ground, the space between before and tomorrow, between yesterday and the seconds ahead. 

I want to own a sliver of time; any moment will do. When I began to catch it, the now slips through my finger, escapes like flying dollars in a glass box at the arcade. The closer I get, the faster it flies by. Is this the true dance? The dance that propels us into a forward inertia, spinning us into what we’ll never be privy to?

I want to own a sliver of time.