I had a dream last night about time.
There were clocks and watches. Lots of them.
Some had numbers, some Roman numerals.
Grandfather clocks, pocket watches and wrist watches.
But there was something odd about them.
You could hear the sound of the hands moving, yet they were not.
All the while, the day turned into night, and the night turned into day.
It kept repeating over and over. But the hands remained still.
When I awoke, a sense of urgency came over me, panic-like, as the dream felt like reality.
I lay there trying to make sense of it, and in my hazy state, I realised that the stillness of the hands represented me waiting.
Not moving, not changing.
All the time that I was still the world was not. It was changing around me.
Friends having children or getting married. People growing within their lives.
Yet I was not.
I was waiting for the right moment to start.
Procrastinating about the path I should take.
The world did not wait for me to make up my mind.
It cost me years, and had I made decisions sooner, the hands would have been moving in my dream.