I don't know what it is about weekends, but they always seem to fly by too quickly. Sure, this is the case for everyone, and yeah, I have no one to blame but myself for spending a lot of my time sleeping, but seriously, each weekend goes by faster and faster, so quick in fact that it seems like the weekend never came at all.
I remember when I was a child and time seemed to creep by slowly, perhaps the way it would if we were to sit and stare at an hourglass all day. I used to look forward to turning sweet sixteen and thinking that it would be a magical age in which everything would fall into place perfectly.
I remember turning sixteen and not having it be anything I was expecting -- how anticlimactic and uneventful the whole process was, how like every other birthday it had been.
I remember turning twenty-one and feeling the promise of excitement, the anticipation of graduation, the thrill of an unknown future.
I remember a few days ago when I looked forward to the weekend and all the things I would occupy myself with; now, what I have done, who I have seen, what I am promising myself for the next weekend.
I don't remember a great deal of what I wish I could remember. I see clearly other moments that I would rather not remember. I blink and everything changes, yet stays the same.
Sometimes it seems as if life consists of weekends or vacations strung by the thread of monotony, does it not? And we only pay attention to its beads, when what in the end defines us is the string.
I like the last paragraph. So deep, Giosy.
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