I only have one minute to make an impression and so do you. We are judged on our first impression. I am bright, artistic and I refuse to fit into a mold. So what you think of me int he first minute will be irrelevant in the second.
a minute to go, and yet the time’s almost up. Long, short, they’re equal, yet not. Longer ones sometimes not the greatest, shorter ones can be exasperating. Unless…perhaps this is not the measurement of time, but rather of size? In which case, the depth and meaning of this particular paragraph is, indeed, minute.
you have a minute to write. 60 seconds. how do you do that? how does your mind race so quickly and you can just figure it all out…. let it flow like that? the human mind is spectacular. that’s how fast it works. that’s how connected your eyes are to your brain. you have one minute. now go. fast. type. write. live in one minute. don’t second guess it.
Less time than it takes to get something right, enough time to get you killed or save a life, the time you should start changing your life. Everything should be summarized within it but not understood within it. A ticking countdown on the clock of life.
This minute fraction of time– so very small and insignificant… this is what sets us apart. The second in time (the minute fraction, to be exact)… it shows that we truly are an incredible race of being. The second the mother and baby’s eyes connect and they know that they will never, never be apart. Not truly. That’s why humans are so amazing. It’s our love.
Aaaah! Wait! I didn’t mean to click this again! Oh, well. I guess two entries a day isn’t too bad. Most of the stuff I’ll write in the future will be fantasy/fiction, I guess. What I usually write. This is such an incredibly cool idea for a website!
I have one minute to write this.
Gosh, this is hard.
Why writer’s block now?
The purple bar is growing.
My palms develop sweat.
The song I am listening to rings throughout my ears.
The “ding” sound is triggered.
The message appears.
“Time’s up! Finish up your last sentence and click the button to submit.”
I slide my finger along the laptop mousepad to the lavender button.
Click.
“Now, Ellie.” My crazy but awesome best friend shouts to me.
“One minute you impatient troll!” I shout back to her. I hear her gasp and smirk.
“I am not a troll. I do not live under a bridge.”
“Take a joke. Now, give me a minute.”
The smile that blazes across my face when I receive your text.
I know: you’re just another passer-by in my life who’ll stroll out of it again when the time’s up.
But if, for even just a minute, we could be friends, at least it’d have been a beautiful minute.
“Wait a minute…you expect me to believe that you are some magical witch?” Donna exclaimed.
I sighed. She just wasn’t going to get it. Most humans don’t.
“Not a witch…just, I don’t know what to call it,” I said.
“This is like Harry Potter, where I am the muggle and you are the wizard…or witch.” Donna giggled.
This wasn’t going to work. I reached into my pocket and brought out a pouch.
“Oohh! A magic trick. What are you going to….” she didn’t get to finish the sentence for I threw the bags contents on her and soon she was a snoring heap on the floor.
(sorry…it’s hard to type with an Ipad. This would’ve been better.)
You think: if you wrote a story about a single minute in every single person’s life on the planet you would have some seven billion stories. You have written three previous novels that publishers kept calling “Near misses” and you decide that you have nothing to lose. You write the book. It takes you eleven years. When you started the book you were still on the cusp of being a young man and a grown man, but now you are on the cusp of being an old man. You are forty-one years old. The first year you spent delegating what time of day to make the book. You chose 2:30 in the afternoon, so that too many people weren’t eating lunch. You also debated whether or not to set the story in Central Time and honor the time zones, but didn’t want too many chapters of people sleeping, which you felt would be a cowardly way of finishing the book early. You wanted deified status, to be remembered as one of the greats, to see your name alongside your heroes: Orwell, Faulkner, and Dostoevsky. And so you spent eleven years writing a book. You list the chapters as ages. 0, 1, 2. The beginning of the book, much to your chagrin, is still mostly just sleeping, because this is what babies do. It is also much more shitting than you had envisioned. Similarly, the later chapters — 90 – 100ish — are much of the same. But still, after the first couple thousand pages, as the book climbs its way into more cognizant ages, the story begins to pick up. Stories of loss, self awareness, growth, self-discovery, and only slightly more paragraphs about masturbation than you’d originally imagined. Around 40’s you’re shocked to discover in many cased life begins anew; stories of divorces and affairs and drug usage and alcoholism and sex changes and Zoophilia and murder. Stories of people being electrocuted and falling in love and being electrocuted and falling in love and so much fear of death. There are thousands and thousands of pages of people trying to rationalize death, there own and that of others. You’re amazed when you re-read your masterpiece (which takes you seven years, making you now forty-nine, because you took a year off to celebrate writing your novel and disappeared in Cabo) by how much of it is pissing and shitting and fucking and crying and nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing. You’ve captured the human condition and discovered the human condition is composed primarily of boredom and fear. We’re bored because unintelligent and we’re afraid because we understand nothing. Your novel is broken down into hundreds of books the size of several Encyclopedia collections. The entirety of it fits into the shell of a semi-truck, which you have delivered to several publishing houses. It takes them five years and dozens of readers to make their way through it but they praise you as being brilliant, revolutionary, omniscient and celestial. There’s some changes they want to make but the answer is: yes yes yes yes yes. It takes them ten years to edit the book and another year to get it to print. The book is called “I” to capture the essence of existence and self awareness. Your collection fills entire bookstores; you are the only thing available to read. It takes the public 20 years to finish your book — as there are things the public simply can’t make wait, like their children and television shows — but when they do they too praise your genius, your ingenuity, the ruminative way at which you captured them. You are 85 years old when the offers start coming in to do book signing and book tours and talk shows, but by now you have started going slightly senile, and though you cannot resist offering praise for your work, you cannot pair to shake anybody’s hand knowing you’ve written about how much shit and piss and come has graced their delicate fingers. You cannot bare to look anybody in the eye knowing you’ve written about their despair, their longing, their hatred. On a nationally broadcasted television show, in the middle of an interview, you have a heart attack and piss and shit yourself and the audience rises from their seats and applauds you as your soul slips from your body to the chants of, He knows, he understands, see how he captures the very essence of us all!
i had one minute to tell him excactly how i felt. one minute. this was going to be hard, for both of us. I took his hand in mine and looked him hard in the eyes. “Michael, you are an idiot for doing this.” he replies with a nod.
one minute one second time is a virtue that can be compared to a wall… all the time ytou think you are so close to getting it over it but never are you close enough to reach the top. one minute you are almost there but the next minute you are looking down to where you started and you think you have barely moved time is a rough thing to think about but even tougher to live through. How can anyone with goals and dreams bare to think that time is holding them back? Simple… they keep their goals close and their dreams even closer.
That one minute where everything in life had to be decided. Life, death, love and hate. Everything in that small minute when she was standing in the middle of the road ready to collapse. Ready to give up.
Minutes are too subjective for me. actually a minute is different in the eyes of the behold. just a few minutes could mean hours. for a few minutes more could mean just that. i like to deal with seconds because they’re short in anyone’s mind.
In a minute anything can happen. From the bed to the closet to the opening door as you make your way out into the world. A minute. It’s what can make or break you.
In a minute the phone is going to ring.
Will I answer it?
Do I want to speak to you?
What will I say?
That I hate you, that I love you.
I will not answer it. Let you wonder where I am,
what I’m doing. Let you suffer the way I’ve suffered.
So that’s decided. I won’t answer.
What if you don’t call?
One minute is not enough to tell you that I hate you. I need an eternity. From the bottom of my soul, you make me sick. I want to vomit and then eat my own vomit. Do you understand how much I hate you? One minute. In one minute, I can tell you that you need to die. Then, I don’t know what I can say after.
She took hold of his hand at the last minute before he lost control of the wheel. Steadily, they reentered the road and made to their promised destination. One minute sooner and they would have been erased forever.
One minute, they were talking and the conversation was going smoothly, the next minute, there were outbursts out cries. It kept fluctuating every minute.
THE END
One minute is not enough. Not even a life is enough, and we keep thinking it is. Bullshit! Make your choices straight! and fucking live!
I only have one minute to make an impression and so do you. We are judged on our first impression. I am bright, artistic and I refuse to fit into a mold. So what you think of me int he first minute will be irrelevant in the second.
a minute to go, and yet the time’s almost up. Long, short, they’re equal, yet not. Longer ones sometimes not the greatest, shorter ones can be exasperating. Unless…perhaps this is not the measurement of time, but rather of size? In which case, the depth and meaning of this particular paragraph is, indeed, minute.
j
you have a minute to write. 60 seconds. how do you do that? how does your mind race so quickly and you can just figure it all out…. let it flow like that? the human mind is spectacular. that’s how fast it works. that’s how connected your eyes are to your brain. you have one minute. now go. fast. type. write. live in one minute. don’t second guess it.
Less time than it takes to get something right, enough time to get you killed or save a life, the time you should start changing your life. Everything should be summarized within it but not understood within it. A ticking countdown on the clock of life.
This minute fraction of time– so very small and insignificant… this is what sets us apart. The second in time (the minute fraction, to be exact)… it shows that we truly are an incredible race of being. The second the mother and baby’s eyes connect and they know that they will never, never be apart. Not truly. That’s why humans are so amazing. It’s our love.
Aaaah! Wait! I didn’t mean to click this again! Oh, well. I guess two entries a day isn’t too bad. Most of the stuff I’ll write in the future will be fantasy/fiction, I guess. What I usually write. This is such an incredibly cool idea for a website!
I have one minute to write this.
Gosh, this is hard.
Why writer’s block now?
The purple bar is growing.
My palms develop sweat.
The song I am listening to rings throughout my ears.
The “ding” sound is triggered.
The message appears.
“Time’s up! Finish up your last sentence and click the button to submit.”
I slide my finger along the laptop mousepad to the lavender button.
Click.
One minute.
That’s all we have before the earth is wiped from the face of the universe.
I hold my lover’s hand.
We wait.
“Now, Ellie.” My crazy but awesome best friend shouts to me.
“One minute you impatient troll!” I shout back to her. I hear her gasp and smirk.
“I am not a troll. I do not live under a bridge.”
“Take a joke. Now, give me a minute.”
The smile that blazes across my face when I receive your text.
I know: you’re just another passer-by in my life who’ll stroll out of it again when the time’s up.
But if, for even just a minute, we could be friends, at least it’d have been a beautiful minute.
“Wait a minute…you expect me to believe that you are some magical witch?” Donna exclaimed.
I sighed. She just wasn’t going to get it. Most humans don’t.
“Not a witch…just, I don’t know what to call it,” I said.
“This is like Harry Potter, where I am the muggle and you are the wizard…or witch.” Donna giggled.
This wasn’t going to work. I reached into my pocket and brought out a pouch.
“Oohh! A magic trick. What are you going to….” she didn’t get to finish the sentence for I threw the bags contents on her and soon she was a snoring heap on the floor.
(sorry…it’s hard to type with an Ipad. This would’ve been better.)
You think: if you wrote a story about a single minute in every single person’s life on the planet you would have some seven billion stories. You have written three previous novels that publishers kept calling “Near misses” and you decide that you have nothing to lose. You write the book. It takes you eleven years. When you started the book you were still on the cusp of being a young man and a grown man, but now you are on the cusp of being an old man. You are forty-one years old. The first year you spent delegating what time of day to make the book. You chose 2:30 in the afternoon, so that too many people weren’t eating lunch. You also debated whether or not to set the story in Central Time and honor the time zones, but didn’t want too many chapters of people sleeping, which you felt would be a cowardly way of finishing the book early. You wanted deified status, to be remembered as one of the greats, to see your name alongside your heroes: Orwell, Faulkner, and Dostoevsky. And so you spent eleven years writing a book. You list the chapters as ages. 0, 1, 2. The beginning of the book, much to your chagrin, is still mostly just sleeping, because this is what babies do. It is also much more shitting than you had envisioned. Similarly, the later chapters — 90 – 100ish — are much of the same. But still, after the first couple thousand pages, as the book climbs its way into more cognizant ages, the story begins to pick up. Stories of loss, self awareness, growth, self-discovery, and only slightly more paragraphs about masturbation than you’d originally imagined. Around 40’s you’re shocked to discover in many cased life begins anew; stories of divorces and affairs and drug usage and alcoholism and sex changes and Zoophilia and murder. Stories of people being electrocuted and falling in love and being electrocuted and falling in love and so much fear of death. There are thousands and thousands of pages of people trying to rationalize death, there own and that of others. You’re amazed when you re-read your masterpiece (which takes you seven years, making you now forty-nine, because you took a year off to celebrate writing your novel and disappeared in Cabo) by how much of it is pissing and shitting and fucking and crying and nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing. You’ve captured the human condition and discovered the human condition is composed primarily of boredom and fear. We’re bored because unintelligent and we’re afraid because we understand nothing. Your novel is broken down into hundreds of books the size of several Encyclopedia collections. The entirety of it fits into the shell of a semi-truck, which you have delivered to several publishing houses. It takes them five years and dozens of readers to make their way through it but they praise you as being brilliant, revolutionary, omniscient and celestial. There’s some changes they want to make but the answer is: yes yes yes yes yes. It takes them ten years to edit the book and another year to get it to print. The book is called “I” to capture the essence of existence and self awareness. Your collection fills entire bookstores; you are the only thing available to read. It takes the public 20 years to finish your book — as there are things the public simply can’t make wait, like their children and television shows — but when they do they too praise your genius, your ingenuity, the ruminative way at which you captured them. You are 85 years old when the offers start coming in to do book signing and book tours and talk shows, but by now you have started going slightly senile, and though you cannot resist offering praise for your work, you cannot pair to shake anybody’s hand knowing you’ve written about how much shit and piss and come has graced their delicate fingers. You cannot bare to look anybody in the eye knowing you’ve written about their despair, their longing, their hatred. On a nationally broadcasted television show, in the middle of an interview, you have a heart attack and piss and shit yourself and the audience rises from their seats and applauds you as your soul slips from your body to the chants of, He knows, he understands, see how he captures the very essence of us all!
i had one minute to tell him excactly how i felt. one minute. this was going to be hard, for both of us. I took his hand in mine and looked him hard in the eyes. “Michael, you are an idiot for doing this.” he replies with a nod.
one minute one second time is a virtue that can be compared to a wall… all the time ytou think you are so close to getting it over it but never are you close enough to reach the top. one minute you are almost there but the next minute you are looking down to where you started and you think you have barely moved time is a rough thing to think about but even tougher to live through. How can anyone with goals and dreams bare to think that time is holding them back? Simple… they keep their goals close and their dreams even closer.
That one minute where everything in life had to be decided. Life, death, love and hate. Everything in that small minute when she was standing in the middle of the road ready to collapse. Ready to give up.
Minutes are too subjective for me. actually a minute is different in the eyes of the behold. just a few minutes could mean hours. for a few minutes more could mean just that. i like to deal with seconds because they’re short in anyone’s mind.
In a minute anything can happen. From the bed to the closet to the opening door as you make your way out into the world. A minute. It’s what can make or break you.
In a minute the phone is going to ring.
Will I answer it?
Do I want to speak to you?
What will I say?
That I hate you, that I love you.
I will not answer it. Let you wonder where I am,
what I’m doing. Let you suffer the way I’ve suffered.
So that’s decided. I won’t answer.
What if you don’t call?
when you meet someone,it takes less than a minute to form your opinions on them.
One minute is not enough to tell you that I hate you. I need an eternity. From the bottom of my soul, you make me sick. I want to vomit and then eat my own vomit. Do you understand how much I hate you? One minute. In one minute, I can tell you that you need to die. Then, I don’t know what I can say after.
She took hold of his hand at the last minute before he lost control of the wheel. Steadily, they reentered the road and made to their promised destination. One minute sooner and they would have been erased forever.
a minute
sixty seconds
a poem that fails so badd
a kiss that llasted
59 seconds too long
or maybe even sixty
sixty
One minute, they were talking and the conversation was going smoothly, the next minute, there were outbursts out cries. It kept fluctuating every minute.
THE END
Minute. A unit of time. It measures time.
A minute could last for eternity. Or it could go away like it lasted only a second.
What even is time?