And in that moment I realized that as much as time might only be something we constructed to organize our lives, I can’t seem to get it right. The only time it feels like the timing is right is when I sit down and play an instrument and let the music flow from my mind into my heart as the emotions resonate into hands or the mouth of the instrument and the notes play the sweetest melody. It feels like the only time I can say the right things are when the pen is in my hand and my hands fly across the pages expressing my soul’s deepest secrets that I have to keep locked away. If I look closely enough, the ink seems to be tinted red, as if my words were written in my blood, as if it was a part of me; it keeps me alive. And when I look up from the red tinted pages I see the clock ticking away as a constant reminder that I never can catch the right time. My life is a series of people who are not yet ready for me because their heart is shattered and of missed chances with new loves because I was 5 minutes too late. I cannot wait for the day the clock stops and I can finally catch up with the love of my life and show them everything I have written, time will no longer exist and I will have nothing to hide.