Too many times

I have questioned time.

I question whether it’s on my side

Or taking me for a ride?

Time.

Like the spine that keeps me up right

It keeps me up at night.

Time to plan. Time to think.

All I have is time.

Time has me running in leg braces.

Time promotes perfect form, no loose ends.

I’m structured in time.

Things feel right, but is time?

When is time right? What is the right time?

We scout our future like the next high school football prodigy with fine critiques that drive us to second guess and pass up on the best. Perfection has eyes

We have submitted ourselves.

Remove the fear that rests uncomfortably like a coffee table where one leg is a quarter inch shorter than the rest.

Live for the small chill that emerges on the back of your neck that makes your palm’s react.

Sweat.

React. We are born to work; we sell our bodies to work. Grind.

We are rugged like Timberlands meant to withstand the cyclone of life.

We are natural disasters.

We are Meteorologists who predict rain when there are only sunny days ahead. We run too slowly, like the Olin clocks. We proceed with caution like dogs;

We try to sniff out the bad.

We proceed with our heads, which is seemingly counterintuitive.

Test the water before you dive in.

You don’t always know. We aren’t always right, our transcripts’ tell us so. We question each other because we know we are flawed, but

who says we aren’t perfect parts?

Time induces the quest for questions.

We exist in time, but does time exist in us?