There is a different perception of time when sometimes time seems to move faster than usual. I translate the time into an amount of text I can read or amount of text I can write and realize how limited the time is.
I can see how the light around me takes a slight yellow hint then turns into yellow, then into orange and then the space around me is split by a fiery red ocean of sunset on the horizon, gradually turning into white, blue sapphire and deep violet of the evening sky with the clouds coloured with fluffy pink tint of a cotton candy.
The evening is filled with bustle and noise when the roads are getting choked with cars, and the air is full of irritable honks, sirens, and screeches of tires. And ten meters aside beyond the veil of foliage everything is submerged in the serenity and coolness of fresh evening air.
Old weathered tiles surround an abandoned island of flower beds, coalescing into one huge field of wild grass mixed with the drying remnants of what has been mowed and left here an eternity ago.
At 8 pm sky takes the deeper tint of blue, and the shadows are taking over, shielding everything from heat. The tops of the old brick buildings are bright, orange, and festive, reflecting the sun while it's on its way to the horizon. The air is getting cooler, and the occasional mosquitoes interrupt the smooth flow of consciousness.
The passage of time is inexorable, and the speed with which a day turns into an evening is palpable as if I live in an accelerated simulation of reality.
Or is it what happens when you start to worry about the passage of time. When you don't worry about the passage of time, though, the years can fly by with the same lightning speed.
The evening dusk is crisscrossed by ultra-bright headlights, announcing with their presence the fact that the day is effectively approaching its end.
I mark the time by the distances I walk, the amounts of text I read and write. It creates an illusion that I capture the time and convert it into something tangible that I can keep. Something that won't slip away like the sand through the fingers. Though it's just an illusion and everything keeps going through the cycles of days and nights