There Isn’t Enough Time. . .
It’s 4:00 AM.
There are sparks in my brain: I can feel the electricity within the synapses and neurons make their exchange like static flying across telephone wires that criss-cross and intersect inside my head- thought after thought after thought shooting past, connecting yet its all too fast for me to catch- but I feel it.
The chemical reactions that occur within us, like clockwork they keep us in check. An intricate design so frequently overlooked, because it is just supposed to happen. I keep thinking about life: how short it is, how little time we have here, how small we all are compared to everything else; compared to the rest of the universe we are nothing, barely even a blip on the radar. Compared to stars and planets and gases and elements we’re just teeny tiny little things that are here for an instant and then we fizzle and die, and everything else just keeps going the way it has for billions of years.
I keep wondering how on earth I am going to accomplish everything that I want to do in such a short amount of time. The brain is a funny thing.
Thoughts are funny.
4 AM is funny.
I’ve always liked this time of night: it is a time that I can own, here and now. It always seems like anything can happen at this time: like toys can spring to life or little elves can come cobble your shoes and no one would bat an eyelash or think anything of it because it would all be perfectly normal and acceptable ”it is 4 AM after all” they would say, and then they would yawn and close their eyes and forget what they saw. In the morning they would drink their coffee and tell you about the strange dream they had in the night. I used to think that as a child. That there was this magical hour my stuffed animals would breathe and walk, carry out their secret life because it is 4 AM, I should be sleeping…but I would be faking it, and taking in the surreal life of my toys, and at times I wished I could be a part of that world.
For one moment I could sit and have tea with Big Bunny, this enormous brown bunny I received for Easter. He had an orange bow, and I think he hated that gaudy bow as much as I did. . .yet I was never allowed to take it off of him. Maybe that’s why its so special; the silent morning hours where most are asleep or in dreamland… nothing is really real, its like a living dream.
Agent [M] 