There are weeks where time escapes me; slips through the cracks between my fingers as I try to hold it. Gravity is unforgiving. Perhaps this is a normal part of life—an inevitable part of life I stubbornly wish to believe is short lived; that time will proliferate with age and experience like a redemptive reward. I often reconcile how I spend my days with how I wish to spend them; how I should be spending them. The dissonance is harsh. Time is unforgiving.
And then there are brief moments amidst the rush when the urgency quells. My eyes glistened as the radiant sunset danced on the Puget Sound. Time became viscous and suspended motion. The dissonance softened. I stood there as the breeze ruffled my hair, dazed and infatuated. I listened to my breathing, calmed by the ebbs and flows of that iridescent light. I needed to be more forgiving: I needed to forgive myself.