#7 Summer of Grief — The Hours That Disappear Too Fast

This one’s short, because Mondays are always a little slippery and hard for me. I still don’t understand how time disappears like that; how the evening folds quietly into night before I’m ready. Most days, I don’t feel fully awake until it’s already late. And by then, I don’t want to sleep. Not yet. Not when I finally feel like myself again. There’s so much I want to do, even if I know I probably won’t do most of it.

Tonight I’m grieving the hours that disappear too fast. I’m thinking of the ones who come alive after dark; the ones who write, read, reflect, in the quiet. Especially reflect. On what was said and what wasn’t. What they felt today. What they wish they could say more clearly.

And I’m also grieving the time when I didn’t need to wear glasses, when my eyes saw more clearly without them than with. Now it’s the opposite, and that shift feels strange. Especially because I love watching films, and without my glasses, everything blurs. It’s like the world has softened at the edges, but not in a comforting way, more like a quiet reminder that time is always doing something to us, even in the smallest ways.