The Butterfly

This is me thinking/venting, but the venting is mostly about myself, which is an odd way to vent I suppose.

This feels extremely repetative (because it is) but here goes me repeating myself.

There is not enough time in a day to do all that I wan't, should, and have to. My hours criss cross themselves to pieces and yet I am still scrambling for a chance to do what I really want to do. Write! I haven't done this in over a week, longer, I know longer. And it's making me very moody, it's making me angry at math, and science, and stupid SAT's. Ha. Go figure on that one. Anyway, it got me thinking about how time really is the boss. We may think that it's not, that we demand time, but lets be honost with ourselves. Time is a dictator. We are the dictated. Try and stop it, I dare you; see what happens.

Exactly.

Nothing.

If time wanted to skim the last two months of school, well, it could very well do that. It has its own desires, its own needs, its own jokes. Right now, I should be studying for my math test tomorrow, but it's a lost cause, I already know I am going to run out of time. This makes me think about my future, which makes me stress, which makes me laugh and smile and cry. Time's being mean, it's making our hearts flutter with the excitement of the future, but tingle with the sadness of the past. It's its own worst enemy.

The Butterfly

The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Time is a wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of time, like dew on the tip of a leaf.

-R. Tagore