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.