Time and I are thieves – Fit for stealing. Little more. Fit for selfishness – And greed. Never content to take a pass on the moment, we grab every one in sight. We take them up, clasping them to our breasts as a parent might a frightened child. And although we might wish it, or at least wish that others might believe it, there is no comfort to our embrace. No peace. We are neither comfortor nor saviour. We are thieves. We are the wolf waiting at the door. The fox – Ever on the lookout for chickens foolish enough to roost on low branches. We are the weasel waiting for the careless hen to leave her brood unprotected. We are thieves, time and I. And as thieves we live our lives. Thieves. Our fortunes are made as much by fate as by our own cunning. And although we acknowledge this, we do not like it. Neither do we accept it, truth be told. We know already that exposure to a concept does not equal the acceptance of it. Neither does it mean that the hearer will embrace it as either valid – Or true. We are thieves, time and I. Prone to lies and misinformation. Likely to steal a glance . . . or to steal a heart. And likely, more often than not, to take each moment unto ourselves – With neither a thought nor a care about where they go when they leave us. Time and I are a selfish lot. Never content to take a pass on the moment, we instead grab every one in sight, clasping them to our breasts as a parent might a frightened child. Sometimes our selfishness is rewarded and the moment, once no more than a blank slate, grows full and rich with inspiration. Other times, there is no muse to fill the void. And we are left downcast and brokenhearted – with only emptiness... a few more wrinkles in our hands, and minutes lost forever.
