Running—you are running—too fast—for me. Fast-paced society with all your glitter and fame and colorful paper dough and rat races. You race, speeding so fast that maybe on the next leap, above the next hurdle, in the next year, you’ll outpace yourself and overtake yourself. Guess you invented the leap year, didn’t you. Where are you going? Wait for me, or I’ll be forced to let go of you. You will fall ahead of me then, and be lost forever.
I like speed, I cherish stamina. But do not sap my strength and life and health—not on my terms, not on yours. It’s the familiar irony of life, the common complaint: now that we have mechanisms and gizmos to help us move faster, read faster, access faster, learn faster, even grow faster—for we do age faster, did you think there was no price?—we have lost that which we initially sought: no time. We’ve become the dragon chasing its own tail, the flying fish that believes it’s bound to fly at the next—or maybe the next, or definitely the next—leap.
No time to meditate, no time to breathe; I hasten to plant roses and so I prick my fingers and thorns of tears sting my eyes, and I have no time to smell them. You don’t have the time to notice I’ve been hurt.
"Angreek87"
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