Sitting at his desk Father Time, opening his journal, gave vent to his frustration. Why, oh why, couldn’t people be happy with their lives? Time after time they try to hold back time, or pelt through, as in a race against it.
Mothers wanting their babies to arrive quickly; at months old they wanted them to be walking and talking, and to know what ails them at three in the morning. And once in school wanting them to little again, holding back the natural rhythm of time.
The list was endless: men and women having potions, lotions, and surgery to hold back the years. Did they really think it made them more attractive to the opposite sex? Father Time really couldn’t understand their reasoning. You love the person’s personality, not what is on show for the world.
Young people full of life are the most content; they wander idly through their worlds learning from each other, thinking not of the future but the now and what makes them happy.
Many found life a trial; they just wanted the world to stop. They he felt for, the ones who had not found a life that made them content. Many turned to drugs, spirits losing their way, for them time slowed blurred edges.
Sighing Father Time reflected on his journal, closed it quietly. Time was the one thing that no one stops. Amen to that he thought
