Reflection

It is introspection and reflection and depression that settles on my shoulders tonight. I leave my home to return home, and my heart is ripped, torn between two, incapable of settling, restless and wondering, and I can't stop my brain from pacing around the large empty space in my head.
I am so blessed. The Lord I serve has not failed to mercifully give good gifts. Denying and breaking and humbling and hurting in order to give and restore and boast and heal.
And the people I've met, the lessons learned, the sights seen are priceless. They can exist only in the frail precious world of words that flutters about in my heart and soul. I am so blessed.
But right now I feel emptied of every emotion. For though I've learned life and friended fellow humans along the journey, right now all I want to do is stop time. Stop. Stop. It's all too good, it's all too real, it's all too alive. And I'm so very scared if time keeps going going as its bound to do because thats how it lives and thats how it is then how do I know that things will keep going so well?
I tell myself I'm afraid to lose people. To not see them for a three month chunk of time. To not see him.
But really, at the root of the tree that blooms into my heart, I'm afraid I'll lose time. Because it's such a precious commodity and its fickle sands trickle through my hands and I'm utterly terrified that one day I'll notice that there's but a few grains left and then one and then none and then gone.
I've changed so much but does the world care? Life goes on and time keeps turning and there's good and there's hurt and there's kisses and there's missed-you-by-a-second and there's breathing and there's long goodnight sayers and sleepy wakers and in the end all we can do is exist.
And time goes on, mindless of us, mindless of where we are --youth-- or who we're with --him-- or that we want to be someone who matters when we grow up --who can autograph books and nod to the public and smile and say how good it is for you to come tonight.
It steals away our innocence; it leave us with wrinkles and memories and a wistful nostalgia.
Then it skips away.