Tempo

Time is so relative. Past, present and future sometimes are perceived as mere intuitions. Information that scrambles in my brain. The past looks as if it were running in fast motion, in accelerated succesion of events. Future drags it's way and apparently will never arrive on time. The present is imperceptible, as it becomes past instantly. When are we living? Will time give us a break? Is it possible to ask for a little pause and take a deep breath?
I perceive time in a sense that reminds me as a dream, never constant, changing it's course and speed with it's own odd will.
Time is that precious object that leaves room for memories and shrinks in an effort to fullfill our plans. Time is what lets me live while sets my time to die. It's the instrument of a ever-changing God. The ruler of our activities and our perception of life. It's the measure of our goals and the deadline for our fears. Time is the master, enslaving our mind to abstract concepts of order and sequence, yet depending on a continuous and irreversible way: towards the future.

But even so, we are still trying to size the day, to gain a little bit more to ourselves, expanding it for memories and shrinking it to get where we want, when we want. Time is the invention we did to earn a little control of our lifes, but we can't control our creation. It is just drifting apart, elusively escaping towards the highest entropy, taking us into the future, which is probably another name for oblivion.