We make everything permanent and finite and at the end, we wish we had more time. I remember every day that I thought the sun only slid through the sky because I asked it to, every night that I prayed for light in the morning. We think we make time move forward by sheer force of will, and we lose track of its indifference to us. I know I will see you in two weeks’ time, and yet I am still saying goodbye as though we only ever had yesterday, and the future is a lie our parents told us to stop the crying. We forget about things like second chances, like flowers that sleep all winter and bloom again in the spring. We build concrete boxes in the ground or metal boxes on wheels. We avoid direct sunlight. We avoid everything. We smoke, we drink, we only come out at night. We continually refuse to acknowledge the passage of days, and then we wake up with longer limbs or beards on our faces or families, and we wonder where we’ve been this whole time. As though tomorrow only comes if we ask it to. We forget that there is always plenty, there is always room. We forget that more time means more chances, more goodbyes, more hellos. We are foolish and wasteful, and we will find ourselves at the end of everything, asking for more time, as if we had never been given enough.