Thousand Miles an Hour Whatever happened to "I'll finish it tomorrow", I wonder as it all blurs past me at the rate of a thousand miles an hour. We all struggle to keep up in this world that is speeding up at an alarming rate. Everything out of whack as the procrastination is kicked out of existence and anxiety rules my stomach into a knot as I kick it all down into whatever used to be. She used to be able to do that, be able to let it lay low for a while before it all had to come and destroy more lives than it could ever help inside this little dungeon underneath the bridge. Now I just jump to whatever they tell me should be done, not waiting to wonder and understand what on earth I'm doing here, nor why it used to be so much easier. Oh why did it all have to fall down when I kicked it, satisfaction is always fleeting when it leaves you alone and homeless in a harsh world with the icicles coming down at you to pierce your once-perfect skin now marred with years of worry and regret. And why did I leave it all alone in favor of a raging fire that would someday come down and end it all in a way that I knew would never be what I wanted? I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Time Knocking Down My Door If I told you that I wanted to capture all the light of the world in this jar, would you laugh at me? As time floats by, the only thing standing between me and myself is the harsh light of the sun reflecting off of the dull glow of a full moon. I want to trap it all inside my box and keep it all to myself so that time will stop coming around to knock on my worn-out door. The banging is too much, after my doorbell broke down. I lay down in bed and forget about the real world as I imagine what it would be like to stuff the sun into a huge cage made of metal and glass. Planets spinning out of control, and there would be more fire as everything crashed together and formed something bigger than they could have done if it hadn't all began. An army against me, tearing down these safe walls around me and shooting at my bed with guns. Huge insects, all of them swarming down the street and helping time beat my rotted door down. Wind swirls around my hair and brushes through the trees as it struggles to help. My poor, sturdy door, always so loyal and such a good friend, wearing down and about to break under the pressure that's my entire fault. Trapping all the light in this little jar will make it all better again, wouldn't it? Won't it? Won't it be better again? As soon as I get my jar?