Not much time.

There is not much time left. I have been sitting here for what seems like hours. My heart beats with every tick of the clock. The clock hangs on a blank, white canvas. A wall devoid of color or texture, beckoning me to paint it. I gladly color the space with a mental matinee of ifs, shoulds, and what could be. A motion picture begins, a story of tragedy. In this production, the main character is on their death bed. There is not much time left. Family, friends, and staff shuffle in and out through the day. He is tended to and lamented. After sleeping for a while, the main character awakens to blurred objects crowded around his hospital bed. These were not his family, friends nor the hospital staff, but he did recognize them. One of the objects was a car he had always dreamed of owning, another was a home nestled near a forest with a big pond in the front. He also saw several versions of himself, one he was well dressed, stood tall and had a presence of confidence about him. Now he knows what these images are, they were his dreams. They were goals and opportunities that he always told himself he didn't have time for. Now they were approaching him, getting closer, and leaning over the bed now. They all had large angry eyes! In unison, the images shouted down at him, "You could have given us life, but now we must die with you!" Regret, shame, and guilt swept over the man, and he died in that instance. The movie ends. There is not much time left. My heart is beating quickly now, not with panic or fear. Its rhythm is that of a war drum, drawing me to battle. A wave of certainty washes over me, that I am here for a reason. I am here to leave my mark, to own that car, to build that home, and to be the person I have always wanted to be. Even if I am rejected I will never be the man on his deathbed, passing with regret. I will give it my all and more! The two clock hands make a ninety degree. It is time. The receptionist walks over, "Hello. Please follow me and we will begin your interview".