The Second Hand

Time has a way of taking your heart prisoner. An experience, conversation, decision, seemingly inconsequential or obviously monumental, can claim the second it occurs and when that day and minute return, time yanks you back to that moment, reminding you of a thought or touch or emotion. Without realizing it, the placement of the second hand grows into a scheduled reminder of what was, is, could have been or maybe even will be.

But time is relentless and plods along putting distance between you and those moments. It's a terrible tyranny - to be pulled into the immediacy of some place, thing or one passed by, remember the you of then, and then look around and find that life has moved along.

And for those moments that are particularly sweet, it is a bittersweet tidemark, for sure.

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Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try