When I was four years old, I did not know how to tell time. The sun in the sky, each day was mine. Hours, minutes, seconds—time did not control me. It neither restrained nor rushed me. I woke up when I was ready to, I ate when people cooked me food, I played until I couldn’t play anymore.
Now, it’s always about time. We wonder why it passes by so quickly. It’s lost as we dread the hours before school starts and cry for relief by the sweet ring of the final bell. It ticks away during the week as we’re writing a paper. It flies because we attach a number to it and count down the days. We measure the time we have instead of enjoying it.
