Looking ahead time stretches longer
Than it ever does looking back
It looks like there is plenty of days left out there
We’re convinced there is plenty of slack
When you’re looking back time is compressed
And selectively we all have the knack
Of remembering the moments where the feelings we felt
Were more important than facts
In the moment, time seems to be static
Neither going forward nor reversed
But somehow desires and memories
Intrude and the moment is dispersed
When you’re in your zone time folds and recedes
Becoming something that cannot be tracked
It simply isn’t experienced at all
But eventually time always comes back
When you’re older time marches ever faster
When there’s less ahead than behind
But it seems we always have time to regret
And think of life as unkind
Two people can go to a concert or show
And for one the time drags on
While the other will after the last act have to wonder
Where the last two hours have gone
Conveniently we’re capable of completely forgetting
The moments we want to forget
And then waste our time anticipating
Moments that haven’t happened yet
We don’t know what will or won’t happen
But never is the word that we use
When we want to appear to be certain
Rather than revealing we are confused
We have this concept of something called forever
But have no idea what it means
Except that it must be a helluva long time
But it is probably longer than it seems
Like eternity never is forever
But somehow it’s also the reverse
And depending on what we are really afraid of
We can’t decide which one is worse
With the spectrum of ways we deal with our time
An instant can stretch to the max
It’s no wonder we are so lousy at gauging
The duration of any of our acts
We plan so much time for a project
But it always takes at least three times more
And we never seem to assimilate the lesson
To multiply our estimate by four
It should be no mystery then, to anyone
When we set up a time and date
That hardly anyone ever shows up precisely
Most people will be early or late
It has been said that time is illusion
But that may be an elaborate ploy
I’m beginning to think that we’re all deluded
And the mind is just time’s favorite toy
