Time running out,

Hold on, why are you running so fast, Time?

Time flips her hair; I have no time.

I have a meeting to attend, on the hour, it ends on the hour.

Not a second to waste, no time to dawdle

Time secretly relishes having no time.

It fuels her, makes her feel important.

No time to think or even wonder.

Look at me, Time, haughtily flaunts her badge of busy

Time treks on from meetings, to clients, to tapping away on her keyboard.

Her fingers slide across her phone, when not peering into people’s lives.

She’s listening to music, podcasts, slipping in a meditation every so often

Time, why won’t you slow down, where are you rushing to?

What is that important?

With a smirk and a tilt of her head, Time, had no time to answer.

Left behind in the dust, Solitude, settled back down on the bench

Gazing at the purple flowers blowing in the breeze.

Watching the sun move higher in the sky.

A ray of light springing through the trees, warming her chilly shoulders.

Time was long gone by now.

Solitude worried about Time, conscious that she is on a trajectory to nowhere fast.

She will ultimately run out of steam, crash and burn.

Solitude knows Time is not happy, not really happy.

It’s a fake kind of happiness, the kind that feels good in spurts.

The kind you have to keep topping up.

Solitude is cognizant that others talk about her as well

Accusing her of her slothful nature

What is she actually doing with her time?

How will she get anywhere in life, they ponder?

Solitude pays them no heed replaced with her silent confidence

Out of the corner of her eye, Time rushes towards her.

Plops down next to her.

Time tips her head and follows Solitude’s gaze and asks.

What are you so transfixed by?

The setting of the sun, how it knows when to set and when to rise

Flowers close and open, die, and detach from the stem

Dogs sniff a spot smelt by thousands of other dogs, why?

Birds settle in for the night, while the bats begin their days.

How is that so interesting?

Solitude leans towards Time and whispers.

It’s life my dear, it’s life.

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