Time is of the Essence. Maybe.

Time is a fickle thing. It’s one of those weird pockets of life that we treasure and give up all at once. Like the fuzzy lint in the pocket of our favorite green sweater. But Time is funny, for he is quick to come and quick to go, and I suppose if you met him you would like him very much, because people never seem to have enough of him. Word has it he tends to give people wisdom if they stick around long enough, though it’s possible that’s false because everyone’s always losing him. If he was that important they’d keep him around.

I suppose he doesn’t look extraordinary in any sense of the word. A simple person, an interesting person, and a thorough pain in the behind if you know what I mean. Full of it, you know? The importance of time is, I guess, the fact that he’s good old friends with humanity’s lifelong enemy, Change. Time and Change have worked together since the beginning of...well, the beginning of Time, you see. Change probably existed before that, but it’s possible that that’s just gossip.

Though, if you have all the Time in the world, why would you think of anyone else? Some would say he’s selfish. Maybe that’s why he’s always being lost. It could be on purpose because though he does give knowledge, he hurries away youth as well. If you’re one of the lucky ones he’ll take youth in exchange for knowledge, but for most that just isn’t the case. What a shame.

Your bright eyes, full cheeks, white teeth. Your energy. Gone. Time has a thing for strength, too. A little Delilah he is, if you follow me. And then eventually, you’re gone, because lovely little Time has stuck you under his cape and all you can remember is the fuzzy lint in the pocket of your favorite jacket, and you wonder why it was ever important.

It’s important if it beats Time, I think. It’s important if the rhythm of the song walks in step with Time until it picks up the tempo and strides ahead. To outlast Time. To continue when Time has ordered the recents to be cut, the individuals who did nothing, the you and me. The humans don’t last. They never could; their skin is too soft, their lives only a blink of Time’s eternal eyes.

Which is funny, I suppose, because for something that shouldn’t last very long, they’re able to create long-lasting things. Enduring ideas. Ideas that are subjected to Change, but ideas nonetheless. Of civilization, humanity, morality, of life, death and otherwise. They have the ability to beat time, if only there is a stimulant.

We treasure Time, because he’s short for us. We lose him often, find him now and again, curtsy a greeting, and move on. He takes what we hold most dear eventually, but it was given to us through him in the first place. He is fickle, he is everything, he is nothing. He is only important as we see him.

Then to me, I think, he must only be the lint in the pocket of my green sweater.