time is a liquid thing

time, like love, is a liquid thing. three hours of agony can feel like three days; and three hours of bliss, like three seconds. the urge to parcel and measure time is ultimately a futile, capitalist invention — we live in a constant sense of time scarcity — but what are we really afraid of? having not enough time to do what? to live what? to obtain what? I must consciously ask myself if I’m living life like a storybook (and who is writing it) — plotting for the future chapters, forecasting plot failures, preventing unknowable dooms — or am I living life like a poem, savoring each word, each line, each comma and parentheses?