Time

He wanted to believe that he never desired to "grow up," that he never wished for time to accelerate and flip forward to the "fun parts." The speed had blurred his memory. It was like the trance you enter when driving down familiar roads late at night. Suddenly, you're where you're trying to end up. You know that you passed certain streets and buildings, that you slowed down at the blinking yellow traffic lights, but you don't feel the distance. The past is always moving backwards in a slow shuffle, kicking up dirt as it looks you in the eye. You're backing away too, engaging in some kind of reverse stand-off. He was sure that he couldn't have wanted his childhood to end, not the way he felt now. Now, he wanted to participate in time, to feel the seconds drip off his skin like beads of sweat or tears. Maybe it felt too fast, living. Remembering, reminiscing, recounting. You control the pace with those things. You can see them when and how you want to. He decided that he wanted to live in the seconds, minutes, and hours of before. He felt that it was the only way he could be present.