Confessions of Time
Time, it's always such a funny thing when one takes the time to actually think about it. Think about the ways in which five simple minutes can seem to take the longest time to pass, and yet an hour can pass within the blink of an eye. Time is the essence of beings, and yet time is seen by most of the population as being something that essential is just numbers, as someone once said to me "just numbers to help us keep appointments". And yet, time is life and death itself, for we all, each and every one of us one day run out of time. We never acknowledge it verbally and yet it is always there, in the back of our minds; mocking us. Tick tock, tick tock goes the rickety clock of life. I despise clocks, they are always that sinister reminder that time is forever running out, forever creeping up on us; forever out of our control. I despise clocks almost as much as I despise not being in control. Control; now there's another illusion that most people, myself included on the rare occasion, fail to realise. In this big blue planet we call a world there is actually very little that can be controlled. Now if you run a magazine then yes in your little head you control everything, but if you look at the world on a whole there is little we control. The rise of the sun, and the moon we cannot control, the time we cannot control, the weather we definitely cannot control; which seems to have a sense of irony as it can be sunny forever and a day and yet the day you wear your nicest outfit it will be gale-force wind and rainstorms. It's 'sod's law' or so I've been told.
Death, death is another thing we have no control over. If you are a surgeon and you stop 100 people from dying, then your deluded little mind thinks you control death, you can stop death. You can't. Death is inevitable, and if you 'stopped death' it's because death changed its mind about its victim, not because you are a 'surgeon god'. Death can never be stopped, it will claim its victim whenever and wherever it wants and you can't stop it, nor control it. You can shout and cry and even pray all you want, but you can't buy life just as you can't sell death. Not even a murderer controls death, nor do the winds or the ever changing seasons. Death is neither good nor bad, it is a natural and neutral force that rivals anything on the Earth, or the heavens or the fiery depths of hell.
Death is a presence, a presence that I shall embrace when my time finally comes, when the tumour in my brain finally takes my last breath. Yet note this, the tumour didn't kill me, nor was it the surgeons who said it was inoperable. Death is my sentence yes, but is not evil, or a tragedy. It is simply time, and time has run out. I await patiently, and with time I look back; on my life, on this things I've done and inevitably the things that I didn't do. Do I regret letting you walk away? With every fibre of my being. I could have been so happy if I had simply followed you, if I had ignored what people might say and if I had listened to my heart instead of letting my ice-cold walls tower me and 'protect' me; comfort me. However, if I had selfishly kept you, I often fear my own temperament and defence mechanisms would have simply pushed you away and destroyed us both – by letting you go, I had hope that I would not taint you; that I was saving you.
Would you have even wanted to be kept, for me to stop you walking away? That day our working relationship ended, and I realise a possible personal relationship was right there for the taking yet who says you wouldn't have rejected me? And that rejection would have killed me long before this tumour gets chance. No, I did the right thing, I simply hope when you read these and my last thoughts you won't look disgusted, or hate me. That you will simply smile and think of me occasionally with good thoughts and a warm heart
– Yours (whether officially or not is immaterial; I will forever be yours) Miranda
As several tears hit the crisp stationary paper, Andrea gently placed the well-read letter back in the music box, in her bedside table; as was the annual routine for the day that the love of her life died; the love of her life with whom she never had the chance to love.
AN: Thanks for reading - I know it's sad... but I was in a sad mood? Please don't hate... Constructive criticism only please as it is my first DWP story! I am currently messing with ideas - some of them for Hope Springs as I was surprisingly asked to write a story for it! Should I write more DWP stories? Any requests? I have a few ideas like I said but I need to know what you guys think... if any one you ever actually read this :D
Please let me know!
Miss Spesh :D