Time. The constant that define every aspect of the infinitely small dust speck that mark our individual lives on this moderately sized superficially cooled molten rock. We measure it, pretend to treasure it, and just at the end of it realize just how little we have truly cherished it. The beauty and the horror of time is just that it is relative. As a child a five minute wait for ones favorite tv-show was an eternity in itself, but now – at the age of 46 – it is, at the very best, a semi decent brushing of teeth and an unsatisfactory tinkle. But I find some relief in the fact that even if my time will eventually come to a full stop, time will go on. Until it don’t. And that will mean that there is finally, truly, no one left to worry about time.
