Looking at the past

The sands of time are slipping, running through my fingers. The sands of time are slipping. Slipping into a dreamless sleep. Slipping away from me. Too much to do in one day, not enough time to accomplish the goals in which I have set. The hour glass is falling; falling through the air, off the side of my desk. The glass shatters under the impact and disperses its precious cargo all over the floor. The time in which I need is escaping, with reckless abandon I work on capturing and subduing that which is escaping. I grasp, but the sands of time are slipping through my clutched and wretched fist; fleeing ever so slowly. I open my hand to see nothing, of what I had possessed has stole through my hand and into the night.

The sands of time have slipped through my fingers, and as the desecrated hour glass lays on my floor; the shards of shimmering glass reflect on to my face like stars in the night sky, a sense of hopelessness. Hopelessness soon transforms into despair, "too much to do," "not enough time," "I want to go to sleep." And as I lay my head down to rest, thoughts start dancing around my head. If only I had gripped tighter; had not let go. As my eyelids creep across my eyes like the veil of night, darkness ensues and covers me with way too much to do.

Time has slipped through my hands is wreaking havoc on the land. The sands of time are slipping into the unknown. The sands of time are slipping into some black hole. The sands of time are slipping out of my control.

I originally wrote this senior year of High School. I remember writing as a journal entry for a creative writing course. I was so proud of this particular entry and made just about everyone read it because I thought it was amazing. Looking back on it I think I was just struggling with senioritis and time management skills. What good is writing in a journal if you can't be a little dramatic right?