#07 Time

Is time the evil monster that keeps us from doing what we want? Are you haunted by time every time the clock ticks? This episode is all about time! Along with three poems, Mayra discusses (with herself) the struggles imposed by our obsession with time, how evil time can be and how it might be the only force actually moving us forward. What's Memento Mori Lab? Memento Mori Lab is our permission slip to experiment, try new things, and keep bringing ideas to life. In my case, that means writing mediocre poetry, some stories and scripts, doodling, and recording this podcast. Memento Mori reminds us, we are going to die. Whatever creative endeavor you've been postponing, now is the time to take action. Available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and anywhere you get your podcasts! Instagram: @memento.mori.lab Twitter: @mementomorilab Poems: On Time Time goes fast and slow. It flies. It drags. It tells. It takes. It never stops. Its measure? Pressure. The alarm, the clock, the countdown, the calendar. The birthdays, the holidays, the seasons. The happy new years, the dates, the five-year plans. The beginnings, the goals, the graduations, the wrinkles, the ends. The joys, the pains, the expiration dates. Our expiration dates. Time's a gift and a curse. It's wasted. It's sacred. It's money. It never stops. Its measure? Pressure. We count the seconds, the minutes, the hours. The days, the weeks, the moons, and months. The seasons, the years, the decades. The centuries, the eras, the past. It all means nothing. Stop counting - it goes on just the same. Regardless of our last breath Mindless of our regrets It never stops. Dismissive of our plans Oblivious to our existence It never stops. But when our time comes, It, suddenly, ends and goes on just the same. - This is me trying 7 am, my alarm goes off. It's Monday. Or Thursday. Work is a few steps away But it never felt further apart. I question if it's worth the pain. Or the poem. I drag my feet across the hall, socks on. Sit in front of the computer, right on time. I watch the clock tire itself out, carefully ticking, Showing me how well it can tick and tock. Taking longer each minute to find the next Dreading the seconds between hours Waiting for the arrival of 5 pm, When I no longer care about its job. - Obs. There was one more poem, but I couldn't fit here. It will be published soon on Instagram: @memento.mori.lab