When I was a little girl, time had no meaning. I was a happy child and the days were long and full. As an adolescent, time was an arbitrary notion, and the years were endless. Later in my early 20s, the world was a big bubble and I had full control over it. The rest and the best of my life was still in front of me. The days were bright and the nights were generous and many. The time was mine. It was mine to do whatever I wanted when I wanted. The long nights and days were overwhelming. Christmas and New Year would not come soon enough, and January of next year was the burden of yet another very long wait until next Christmas. Then, around the age of 25, time became crazy. It turned against me. The next five years went by with speed light. Now, January is January again and Christmases follow one another.
I find it hard to delineate which month is shorter. The days and nights blend together into seconds and they become minuscule.

Now, a new day starts with an annoying alarm clock and a frugal coffee; outside, the night still in full force, a black crisp sky with half a moon and scattered lonely stars. I can tell the rest of the world is still sleeping and I am jealous. The rest of the world can afford it. The rest of the world has time.

As the day progresses, my only goal is to catch a glimpse of the sun; it is so rare that when it does happen it becomes a celebration. Most often, I fail. The sun has betrayed me again. It went west and it took the time with it. The same defying moon and lonely stars remind me that I am no longer in control of the seasons.

Twenty years from now is in fact tomorrow.
I have promised myself that each second until then will be something to remember…


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