Up Too Late

Losing Track

They say time is an illusion

And it is - bugger of one. 

Whenever one wishes to pass time 

One can simply recall the time being passed

I can't get up for 4 hours. 

That's only 2 sections of 2 hours

Or 4 of 1. Every class is almost an hour

And I go through many a day...

4 hours is nothing, right?

Each hour has 2 half hours

Or 3 segments of 20 - 

The shows we love spill just over that. 

Less than 3 shows an hour

And I've binged series. 

Of course that's with company

And idle distractors but after all, 

That's what my head's for, right?

An hour is only 6 passings of 10

And 10 is such an insignificant amount. 

60 minutes in which to entertain

4 times over again that's 240 minutes

Or - if sources to be believed - 160 moments

A minute being 60 seconds and 

A second being 1-Mississippi. 

I can count each as it passes,

Count breaths and divide my time 

By the air I inhale:

Rates never bothered me

Although my scrawled work bothered

The teachers checking - at any rate

This may seem so calculated

It is yet, this is my constant. 

I can hear a clock ticking, 

Though none is at nigh

Every lost instance lost time

What am I doing

Heart racing mind chasing

Wasting time precious time

Of which there is quite limited supply. 

So much to experience and we spend 

Immense amounts of it rendered helpless. 

It's not as if I'm completely useless in sleep

That's when ideas appear

And words string themselves 

As easily as I live. 

But why can't they come as I write

For if not recorded they tend to wander off

And I'm back where I started. 

Maybe I've spent enough of my previous time

That I can acceptably get up once again

Leaving thoughts behind. 

Oh - did I not mention the monsters?

Real and imagined they find me at night.

I've never feared the dark

But it seems to be affecting my brain

Whether I want it to or not. 

Lights on or off every memory mocks

"Decisions decisions, all of them wrong," indeed. 

It attacked my body

And every bit of me finds a way to hurt

While a majority are phantom

I wake with more physical effects,

The ghosts of bruises whispering about my legs

Circling arms and pressing into my sides

If I press back they don't go away - 

I've tried. 

Just another second because another

Always passes and they pile upon each other 

Slowly but surely moving along the clock. 

May I be excused from this nightly trial?

I'm tired of routine

If I must sleep let me do it once and get on with things. 

2:19 am. I've almost managed to pass 20 minutes

A third of an hour 

Just a bit more than a show

With nothing more than my worrying mind. 

But it feels like an eternity has been exchanged. 

Oh well -

This is going to be another long night.