time travel is a topic you pen down in your 8th grade essay, starry eyed and dreaming on a diet of sci-fi films and superstitions. your deskmate catches an eyelash on his hand. you softly blow it away. a wish.
you are sitting cross legged awash in the dimness of your laptop. you rub your eyes hard, loaning sleep to your dreams, a reasonable and adult trade off. the eyelash on your cheek does not earn a second glance.
what does it mean to turn down a wish? you realise the myth of good timing. of wishes evading you when you request their presence the most. i wont say its on purpose. i’ll allow room for misinterpretation.
but wishes do not like to be summoned and time does not return to your outstretched hand, a gesture borrowed from the films.
you painstakingly carve out seconds for yourself till they are minutes and you can cup them in your hands. time stitched with bandaids and cautious hope. you are starting to learn.
you are drunk on the ocean breeze, the sand sticking to your toes and a stickier hand holding yours. an eyelash drifts to your friend’s nose and you softly blow it away. no longer a wish.
Creator of this post? You can edit it here using the edit code you chose while posting.