I wanted to hold it, to grasp it between my hands. I would hold onto it as tight as I could. I could hear its sound, mocking and quietly snickering at me. I could feel the wetness of my cheeks. If it did not want to be held, then I wanted to command it to stop.
When I was a kid, I did not want to go. It bored the best of me. I would rather toy with the playful and colorful slides and swings than face the physical knowledge. I did not want it; I could not see the essence of it.
Years passed and it was slowly making sense until it hit my face, hard. The last was always the hardest to face. It cut my heart, more than twice, and threw it away to the winds. Even if I had photographs inside my head, the touch and other physicals would always rank first.
I wanted to kneel on the cement road and hope before the dark, gray skies. If I could hold the time, then I would make sure it would not escape from me. Only if I could.