A letter to Time

Time

I've always known about your existence, but I've never thought that I'd have to feel your wrath. Do you remember my childhood? In the fun little days of Jack and Jane I took all things in and filed them in the fact folder of my head, and now you've destroyed them. You probably owe me some kind of apology?
But that's all right. I know who you are, what you are, and your whole business, anhow science has proved that we can't escape you. There's a reason for you after all, because I guess it wouldn't be any fun if everything stayed the same? But why do you have to hit like a storm? So fast and lurid and abrupt, so we must grieve and fight and moan? Why do you make the taste of sour milk linger in our mouths longer than the sweetness of better foods? I don't understand your philosophy Time, and I know you're experienced but as an adolescent I do have the right to question you?
A little warning next time would be lovely. If you had told me when you were going to trip my feet, and make me fall to the rocky bottom of the pond, that would have been a lot better. But I guess that would be contridicting myself though, as a few days ago I said that anticipation was the worst thing out of all things?

Well Time, I am confused about you, but excited to see what you have in store for me. I know that you are inevitable, Time–but I'm frightened of you, I really am. I'm sensitive, and I'd like you to play a softer tune next time.