January 26: "The longest day"

- Time Must Be A Toddler -

Today is the longest day. Yesterday was long, but today is longer. Even longer than the twenty-six hour day on Wednesday. No matter what, each day is an hour longer than the previous one.

I thought I was working a normal nine-to-five, yet here I am for twelve hours. Somehow "The Way We Were" has become a seven minute song, and I've heard Barbra Streisand's remaining discography to the point where I might consider it torture. Shame, I used to like her.

The days must be lengthening, because tasks that once kept me forty-five minutes are now done in twenty. I used to know that after filing last night's paperwork, answering emails, and writing my new reports, it would be time for lunch; the day half over. Now I can include some water cooler talk, a quick check at Facebook, and master making the most aerodynamic paper airplane before noon hits.

Days used to pass by where my stack of things to do would surpass the hours I had to complete them. I would go home knowing I still had tasks waiting for me the next morning. I would have to prioritize what had to be done, and what could possibly wait for tomorrow. Now, when I finish my task list I still have two hours left before quitting time.

Time flies when you're having fun or when you have a deadline careening towards you. Otherwise, it crawls. It slinks. It meanders. It knowingly stretches like a sadistic sociopath enjoying the pain of never going the pace you want it to. Time must be a toddler.

Back to today, though. Back to the longest possible day. I took a nap. I wasn't terribly discrete about it either. I was sleepy and bored, and allowed myself to conk out. It was about quarter after one. My lunch was still heavy in my belly, and it lulled me to sleep.

While napping, I dreampt that I was an action hero battling a ninja hoard with the skills of Chuck Norris. I punched. I kicked. I elbowed and kneed. I swung around room support beams in order to knock ninja over from behind. I stood atop the tower of bodies, triumphant in my victory over the evil clan. I then woke up.

I stared at my watch, still in a daze, panicked about the time I lost while dozing.

It wasn't even one-thirty.

How? How was I not even asleep fifteen minutes, but still traveled through a full dream? Isn't it supposed to take an hour or so to drift far enough into sleep to dream? If time isn't deliberately slowing, then how could anything about today be possible?

How could I dream within fifteen minutes? How could my tasks for the day be done with half the day still left to fill? How could the same Barbra Streisand song still be on minutes after I stopped paying attention to it? How could an eight-hour day seem to be twelve hours instead? How could I still have hours on end left to go until I can clock out? How could the day's events, if added up based on normal time rates, total to nearly thirty hours?

Where is the time coming from? Is it all the stolen time from parties or romantic evenings ending far too soon? Is it from all the deadlines that raced towards me faster than I could manage the task? Can I give the time back? Can I push this day forward to the end, shave the extra hours off, and give them back to those lost moments or rushed projects?

Can time just work with me, and end this day? It has been the longest day I've had, and it's not even done yet.

**A/N: A bit stream of consciousness in this work. The Book of Days prompts haven't been terribly inspiring for me lately, which is why it's been a while since I added something to this anthology. I figured the best way to break through the wall was to just write, even if it wasn't good. There are some amusing thoughts in this piece, so it might be worth a read even if it's not the best thing I've done.

In the meantime, I'm prepping myself already for NaNo this November, as well as getting back to last NaNo's project. So at least I've been active. I'm hoping the prompts begin to inspire me again so I can produce good-quality writing for you guys. Thanks for sticking with me in the interim. **