The Place Where Time Goes to Die

Been tryin' to get here more often, though these days I find time to be more of a thief than ever before, stealing my hours until I feel I've been robbed blind. Where does it go, I wonder, as it speeds past on the information superhighway?
In my mind I have followed it, chased it, hunted it down imagining that one ordinary afternoon I'll stumble on the place that time goes to pass. I see a giant sinkhole, twice the size of Texas, hell - twice the size of Canada. Inside are the birthdays, the collection of holidays and the massive quantity of every days that flit on by. It's a cemetery of sorts, with headstones and grave markers that remind me of my 24th year, my 34th and then some. There are flowers, orange and pink and pale yellow ones at the site of the times that were most adored - my babies being born, the first time I fell in love, a vacation with my parents when I was still little enough to think they'd always be like that.
If it sounds as if I'm waxing melancholy, really I'm not. I'm finding that it's a process, step-by-step, toward the acceptance that time is our friend when its on our side, yet very often, it can turn on us when we least expect it. Then its like a locomotive barrelling toward oblivion.
My goal is to arrive at a juncture of my own, where I have a healthy respect for the passing of time while simultaneously, somehow defying it.
When (if) I find a way - I'll be sure to post back. Till then...the clock is ticking and I've got other things to do.

Long Island Loyalty

One snow storm after another has pummeled the north-east coast this month. I've always been true to my home state of New York, defending her honor, extolling her virtues, pledging allegiance...except when winter comes. That's when it becomes one of those up and down relationships, she loves me - she loves me not stories. I'll admit that when the temperatures dip so does my affection. I'm a fair weather fan. It's about now when all things bright and warm begin to flirt with my senses. Dreams of trading shovels for sunny beaches, bulky wool coats and hats for one thin layer of clothing tempt my mind. I'm inclined to stray, hop a plane down south or cross country. Leave this place once and maybe for all.
Then I remember that this is home, that I left here for a while years ago only to come rushing back to the arms that welcomed me without a hitch. To some extent I am defined by the map and my spot in the topography. I have my own root system here, albeit currently covered over in about a foot of icy, white accumulation.
Long Island loyalty is a challenge in February. At times it's a challenge no matter what month we're in. Yet, there's something to be said for staying the course and being faithful.
Besides, the flights out are so damn expensive.