A year feels like no time at all to me. It’s a blink. A blip. It’s hardly enough time to change over my clothes from the summer – and it hardly gets cold enough nowadays for the winter coats anyway. A year is small to my mind, and it is terrifying in its accumulation. Once you have one, there is another, then three, then four…
But time is relative, I remind myself.
A year here is not a year there. There, every day is a year. Or is it a blink? Is that it? Have the last twelve months been mere seconds, running too fast to count? To catch? Running so fast that they may run forever if they’ve run a day. Or I was right the first time, and everything has moved slowly, every day endless, every hour a lifetime. The only things left to keep time the inhale and exhale of breaths. The beating of hearts. And not even that.
Not even that.
