The independence of time, for me, is the meanest thing in life. It never waits, it never cares, it never comes and goes the way we want it to be. No matter how hard we try to compromise, it never listens.
Sometimes it stands still. I sat on that bench, waiting for a cab to take me home, staring at my watch, looking at the hour hand move from one dot to another. Slowly. So slowly even when I blinked, it hadn't move. Or that one time when I was in high school, waiting for the school bell to ring. 45 minutes until the cab arrived, 45 minutes until the bell rang and it felt like i was waiting forever just to got home.
Sometimes it moves too fast like Saturday. That one day I spent with him. We sat on that same couch, ordered the same drinks. And we talked. Connected one sentence with another. Repeated one simple sentence we always told each other. Exchanged smiles and laughter. And we looked outside and it's getting dark. Then he took me home, Sunday came, I blinked, and it's Monday again.
The independence of time is mean but somehow it's the only thing I can rely on in desperation. No matter how fast or slow it goes by, it will take me somewhere I need to be. Eventually.