It was some time.  Not the best.  Not the worst.  Just Time.  And though there were times I knew I brought out the worst in Time, Time was, as Time is; incredulous, omnipresent and overwhelmingly ostentatious.

I despised Time.  Yet I had no knowledge or reason or clarity of what Time felt of me.  I knew only of his clinking and clanking in front of me.  His ticking and his tocking, his rocking and his rinsing.  Over and over.  A constant repetition.

Time vibrated and disrupted my every cell and well-being.  Time took my good intentions and put them in a paper shredder so no past or present or future could ever know of what I was meaning to do with them.  Time wrote his own story and made me his protagonist without my consent.  Clearly, you can understand my resentment and apprehension towards his linear progression.

It was my obsession.

Time.

Time Time Time Time Time.

Time took me at my best and then made me do the worst.  Time looked me in the eye and told me that I was on fire when I was nothing but a few ashes and a couple of branches. Time lied.  So I lied.  

I told Time I was just fine.