The Stories of an Immortal

Time

(TW - mentions suicide)

I tell myself I have all the time in the world. I don't need to do this, think this, worry about this now; I can do it later. Those children crying, I can deal with them later. That piece of information, I can read it later. That phone call, I can listen to it later.

And then I'm looking over the corpses of these children, who are no longer children, but grown adults, forced into a world too cruel for them to even contemplate surviving, because I said I'd deal with them later. I thought I had time.

And later I'm looking at a world which needs fixing, which needs hope, and I don't know how to help, because I said I'd read that later. Now all I can see is a world engulfed in flames. I thought I had time.

And now I'm staring at rope, at knives, at pills, carelessly left with barely a scribbled goodbye, because I said I'd listen to them later. Now they've all gone. I thought I had time.

What's the point of having all this time if everyone else is moving one hundred times faster? How am I supposed to focus on what I can do now, if now lasts so much longer than everyone else's?

Oh well, I can think about this later. For now, I'll rest.

But if I'm resting now, I'm not helping, not fixing, not looking, not listening, not doing anything. And they're aging, they're dying, they're falling, they're burning, all while I sleep on and on and on and...