A Play in Two Acts

I daily see the prison that is time, marveling at how quickly it is winding down and away. To stop it is impossible, to slow it only a grand dream. Who are we that we are able to stand and watch the minutes on the clock tick away, wishing only for it to pause a few moments to catch our breath? What other animal does this but man, I wonder. At times it is more than I can bear, for I know that each tick means an hour closer to those we cherish being snatched away- leaving the play early while we sit through another act without them. Perhaps it is a dream that only I have pondered. Of course, we are in good hands and it shall all turn out fine, of this I’m certain. The clockmaker and the play’s author are one and the same. One day we will gather our coats and leave the theatre, stepping out into the street ourselves. Only then will real life begin.