I get oddly sentimental about the passage of time. I don't even mean in the fairly commonplace, "my-life-is-going-by-so-fast" way. I'm talking about the smallest increment. I'll sit and think to myself, "Oh, August is almost done now. How sad that I will never have this August again." While August of 2009 was an excellent month, its passing is no great loss. It isn't as if September comes along and sweeps all that was August into the deepest recesses of inaccessible memory. When it comes down to it, when the clock strikes midnight thirty minutes from now, and August gives way to September, nothing's going to noticeably change. I doubt that I will feel any particular disturbance in the force.
This is just one of the many strange "isms" that make up my unusually idiosyncratic personality. I like to think all - or at least most - of these things endear others to me. Do you feel endeared? I sure hope so.
Twenty-five minutes left of August, and my dear husband, who has been asleep since September was two-and-a-half hours away, has no interest in seeing it off. But I choose to believe that he, too, would be endeared to me if he knew I could not fall asleep till I'd soaked up every last second of the fleeting present. It's a wonder I sleep at all.