Wine soaked logic: Wasted Time.

Moments lost in translation. Lost in the universe never to be found again. These moments so significant in the minute, so memorable by the hour, so influential by the day. 

Mistaken. Lost. Hidden.

What is wasted time? Is it that time which we cling to so unaware of our surroundings? So stubborn about our future. So distressed by our past? We cling to this time in moments of emptiness to remind us that we have a right to feel it. To remind us that we didn't waste our life. 

What is the reality? The reality is that we have allowed ourselves to divulge into a picture so smeared, or so intricate and complex that all our eyes capture within the moment is a stroke of the brush and the colors which create it. We can look down and see our feet on the path, but what we do not realize is that as we draw closer to the idea of utopia, we find ourselves betrayed by reality.

The limitations of our canvas do not exist. To escape meant missing out on the masterpiece. To the colors within we felt connected to one another. We believed in the power of these  primary colors to become advanced to grow into something we have never known before. 

Time.

The clock twists. Logically, full of numbers, equations which never surprise us...What happens when those numbers become smeared? Like the colors of a painting? The numbers lose meaning, the time loses weight in logic, the circle of reason becomes a radius, constantly spinning, but never slowing for understanding, but rather becoming a hypnosis.

Painting with numbers, Its the time you realize doesn't exist, so much so that you forget your wasting it. So what creates this circumference of colors? Is it the man who calls you names? Is it the mistake you made that will haunt you forever? Is it the frustration that feels as though will always be there? Our spherical canvas that shows no escape route is created with these moments, spotted with mistakes, void of logic. 

Pain is illogical. Scars are unreasonable. 

But the result? That is a truly compelling vindication.
Our only guilt lies in the heavy heart which creates a perception of distortion.