Time is the tatter-wingēd butterfly that flits, delicate, among the petals, occasionally pausing for a bead of saccharine nectar. It is a tree’s scrapbook of leaves, considered but never truly admired– when even a breath of air itself takes time.

To bask amongst the fresh fragrance of the tulips standing withered a decade later, the forlorn memories of a forgotten beauty taken with—

to dip one’s feet in the bubbling brook flowing still, but without the liveliness that made it so bright, brilliant—

—that is the feeling of a lost life, of lost time.

Articulation of dreams is no simple task, and at the intangible door of thoughts do wisps of hope await, intertwined, with the silken filaments of regrets and roads-not-taken; alas, one worries he may never live out his dreams, for the days, seasons, years—they pass much too quickly.

Wisdom grows with age, they say, and perhaps that it is true, but only if the entire definition of the word is flipped. Adults say, and they always will say, how children know nothing—that children are naive, ignorant, yet in reality they are the ones who see the world for what it is. The covert masks of strangers melt away in their eyes, their previously veiled shadows struck by the light, for the gentle hearts of youths find it effortless to trust and to love without preoccupation over ulterior motives or repercussions. As it is, it is only later that the absolute fickleness of human emotion and thought is discovered.

Some age faster than others. They are the youths whose sight can end up changing not only their lives, but even the sorrowful temporariness of other beings.

To them, life is no such dalliance.