22

Tempus fugit

The mathematical precision was pristine in its calculation: fast, less than a second. A myriad of factors taken into account of which a few words are but insufficient to describe for the rapidness a single thought performs at the time of its delivery. I did not realize though my mistake until the arithmetic was done. A simple task of subtractions and additions, my eyes transfixed on L as we spoke and interchanged ideas, thoughts and memories of a yore I yanked from a young mind. Mind you, am 54.

I am usually an airhead or unawares of the passing of time. I guess, I through my ignorance or nonchalant attitude to the hands of time; the coming or going of the sun and the stars, rather remain aloof as I watch the river of galaxies turn its course of time as if it had a flow of its own and I simple spectator who knows not which way direction the river runs. I say this today, still young, still rather strong, still rather awake and sort of sharp of mind. Tomorrow, may be another day I will not enjoy having to repeat this ever again as we speak. We al age no matter how young we look or stare at the passing of the stars.

Point being that, as we spoke, time traversed as if a secret grand rapid on the Rockies of the Milky Way in a flash. I understood the hesitation L demonstrated. My acquaintance was ways older than her, stepped unto an old path; L was shy but courteous, her memories lounged forth. As we interchanged memories, I was struck with the lightning of the past and L’s shining glow only juvenescence can radiate as I checked her origins. I went back to the future. I call this memory of a yore romantic, it was a good memory, C, 1999. I am in the now. I am many years before me. But I did not embarrass myself before myself unto the juvenile. I imagine L did its best to save the situation. It was a flashing flood running amok in the chaos before us.

Do not get me wrong. I have forces acting upon me I cannot control. Nor do I wish to shut down yet these forces live a force on their own. The grand rapids of time shoved their course unto my being. Maybe time is tired I ignore it. Does time, like Dracula, even care for each other? Is not Dracula but a metaphor for rebellion against the hands that tic toc? Who then suckles from life? The passing of time?  Is it L the 22 or I the 54? All I know as I write the following was that I was secretly embarrassed, please, reader, do not get me wrong. I was secretly embarrassed to admit I was unable to take into account the human before me and its age before I sucked the very elixir of life out of L’s words. I realized the passing of time. Embarrassed to realize my own age, and like Dracula, I hissed devilish incantations with a dirty pestilent air as I pulled to my face the cape colored red. The old meets the new. The hopeful future meets The dead past.

Young blood, fresh memories.