Cosmologists say that time is an illusion, and I tend to believe them.
I can see how my relationship with time has changed so much over the years.
When I was a kid, I once sat in wide-eyed wonder as a spider trapped a fly in its web, wrapped it up in silky thread and hauled it up to its lair. The entire process must have taken at least an hour.
Now if a Web page takes more than 3 seconds to load, I’m cursing the slowness of the Web site.
When I was a kid, I could sit for hours under a bright summer sky, noticing the shapes the clouds made when they rolled by.
Now I’m irked when I turn on the lights because I’ve noticed a distinct lag between the time when I flip the switch and when the lights actually come on.
When I was a kid, I would marvel over the twists and turns a single leaf would make as it slowly descended to the ground.
Now I begrudge gravity the time it takes for a bag of chips to drop in a vending machine.
There was too much time when I was young, and there’s not enough of it now that I’m older. And yet, seasons still sneak up on me.
It’s nearly mid-October, and I don’t even have my Christmas lights up yet.
Where does the time go?