time.

it’s one of the most unforgiving things that we as humans are forced to experience.

yes, forced.

much like the way that our heart beats as long as we live, time continues….. until it doesn’t.

moments are fleeting and we’re all slowly moving towards whatever it is that follows death.

we’re constantly looking forward to our next big break, regretting our last decision, hoping for something more, mourning a loss, and all the while time continues to eat at us from the other side.

time doesn’t slow for emotions or heartbreak. it doesn’t take a break for highs or overwhelming joys. and it certainly doesn’t pause for a millisecond longer just to resume right back where it started.

that’s the thing about our own ever-ticking clocks- they’re a constant reminder that even when things seem perfect or maybe not so perfect, time never stops progressing.

…so don’t forget to feel the moment that you’re in. whether it’s extreme pain and heartbreak or immense joy, this exact moment is only once. You can’t replay it no matter how much you beg Time to give you mercy.

even if you say you’re sorry or admit to taking advantage of the pastimes that most often consume you with overwhelming feelings of nostalgia, Time simply shrugs his shoulders and remain merciless in your begging.

I don't remember very many birthdays before the age of, well, a few years ago. But there is one birthday that I remember that completely changed the way that I looked at my life. Its seemingly unimportant and I may be reaching for some sort of underlying message that doesn't even exist but here it goes:

I can't even recall how old I was turning or which birthday this was, but it was when my parents were still together. The morning was filled with chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, calls from family members who sang to me on the phone, and I remember getting a limited edition American Girl Doll that looked just like me. She was brand new with light brown hair, and a few freckles- we even added earrings to her ears once I got mine pierced. I felt like we looked so much alike and we shared these traits that made me feel like I was so lucky to have such a great birthday. But once the day ended and the charade that was my birthday depleted, for another 365 days I played with this special doll.

As more and more birthdays went on I started to notice a snag in her clothing, small knots in her hair, and the coloring of her eyes starting to fade. It made me feel like my youth was slowly diminishing just like the freshness of this doll was. Since then, no birthday has felt quite as special, and I can't remember the last time that I truly felt like a carefree kid. Like someone who would wake up with no worries in her mind except whether or not Mom and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes again or sing me happy birthday together again.

So to me, now birthdays sort of remind me of my American Girl Doll Molly. How we sold her at a garage sale to make more money for my college fund (which I apparently have to save real money for and work an adult job for), and how my childhood innocence seemingly left with her. And with age and birthdays coming and going, I'm constantly wishing I was just a carefree kid again and I didn't have to think about all of the complex things that life continues to throw at me. But I've learned that this life is unforgiving to time, and no matter how nostalgic we may feel towards a special edition doll or a morning full of sugary breakfast food, nothing will ever feel that carefree again.

If there were no limits on my time on Earth, tomorrow I would fall in love. I would fall in love with the little things that are often overlooked because the time that I have to appreciate them would be infinite. I would fall in love with the way the nostalgic summer air smells, and how the birds sing in the morning. And if it's a cold rainy day, and the birds don't sing, I would fall in love with the rain itself. I would fall in love with the idea of choosing cereal or pancakes for breakfast. I would fall in love with folding my laundry and cleaning my dishes. I would find the glimmer of hope and goodness in things often overlooked and skipped over due to the sheer fact that we as humans don't have enough allotted time to spend on things that are seemingly meaningless. And maybe, once I'm done falling in love with singing birds or the rain itself, I could fall in love with another human that looks at this infinite world the same way that I might. Because together, we aren't in a rush to overlook small things in order to achieve big things that have been crammed into our very finite amount of time here. I think that this love could feel infinite.

The hardest thing about life is remembering all of the things that were better before...

After each wash and dry cycle,

that once soft blanket begins to clump into small sticky broken fibers.

Chocolate ice cream no longer tastes like childhood innocence,

but rather a heartbreak remedy for sad rainy days.

Your favorite pair of shiny shoes that your mom bought you for school,

is packed tightly in a blue bin labeled "Haley 2009".

The tree house that seemed like a palace full of potential when you were younger,

now sits as a tiny shack with spiderwebs and lost memories.

...And so with each passing day we are forced to remember things that were better before. Better before time transformed them into something unrecognizable. And better before you grew too old to realize that these things of youthful innocence have become nothing but a pastime.

My grandma started drinking her coffee with cream.

Her entire life, my grandma took her coffee black.

She said it was fine tasting as is,

and there was no point in adding a sugary, calorie-filled, creamer.

She drank her coffee black every morning,

and she was satisfied.

It wasn't until my grandma was diagnosed with Parkinson's last year,

that she started to add a splash of cream to her morning cup.

She said that cream was something good,

and suddenly she couldn't drink her coffee without it.

As she started to book cruises and sign her name at the end of fancy documents,

she enjoyed her coffee with the taste of sweet cream.

I wish she could have enjoyed the taste of sweet coffee her entire life.

But it took this nagging reminder that "time comes for us all",

to add those extra calories to her cup.

Another part of me wishes that she still drank it black,

because that might trick my subconscious into thinking that she had an infinite amount of time left to make up for her boring cup of coffee.

But instead, her morning cup of coffee is sweeter,

and her life is slowly becoming shorter.