The Murderer of Minutes

The blood stains my fingertips, drips like hot wax down my arms. My breath quickens. Pupils dilate. Here I sit, ready to confess my crime.

I am the murderer of minutes.

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to “kill” Time? Life feels like a giant waiting room, each of us leafing through our distractions until we are finally called to the back.

I work, go to school, run errands—deepening the rut I must carve so as not to notice that I am stalking my own demise.

Each little murdered minute decays and fades, never to be recaptured, condemned to haunt me in my dreams and memories. The precious little clock ticks are the echoes of ghosts, lost as soon as they are born.

Oh, if only I had….I should’ve….Why didn’t I….The phrase “remember the time” serves as a granite headstone to these passing moments and together we huddle around it, offering each other the comfort of our shared grief.

I am trapped inside Time. Is it a web? A cage? An illusion?

Who invented Time? I want to dismantle this construction and the way it dictates my movements through space and existence.

How different would life be without having to know that you just killed an hour?

But, it is murder. And I am guilty. Each wasted hour, minute, second is one less I’ll ever have. I’m murdering myself each time I stare at a wall, each time I don’t do what it is I want to do.

The time has come to stop sitting still at stoplights.