Rushing Time.

I rush throughout the day, wanting it to be over, soon.

I go through it, counting beeps, counting footsteps, counting how many times I have forgotten and lost my focus on office blabber and desk clutter.

I go through it in a blur – as if someone pushed that fast forward button.

I greet faces without eyes; I hear sounds but only in my mind.


In the morning, I would wake up feeling “fine” – in a word is concealed a thousand different emotions that comes with a thousand different strings of memories with a million different lies.

I would go through routine, look in the mirror and stare at a pair of old eyes.

Only today, I took that extra time to comb my hair and maybe, just maybe, added an extra effort to curl my lips into a smile.


At noon, I cannot even remember how many words I’ve chosen to drown with my sighs. Beth happily recounted to me her weekend with the family, but all I heard was the painstakingly ticking of the clock and myself, thinking, “Whoever said that life passes us by has obviously not experienced how it is to wait to a certain part of the day.”

I console myself with She and Him’s “You Got Me” as I make it to the train, got pushed and stepped on until the familiar buzzing of the televison as background noise aroused me back to reality.


Everyday, I rush throughout the day,

like a writer speed-typing to beat a deadline.

Like a mother checking off her shopping list.

Like a food waiting to be consumed before expiration, or a ball being tossed to a ring before that buzzing sound.


Here I am now, staring at my computer screen while waiting for you to tell me how you rushed throughout your day, until now.

I am thinking – and praying – for the first time in my entire day, I want time to take its time – slow down if not stop completely, maybe have a cup of coffee or sleep on that couch.

Because, have I told you yet?

You are my favorite part of the day.

“I keep sending letters into space, hoping that some mailman somewhere would track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems that he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you, “There is a girl who still writes you. She doesn’t know how not to.”’


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