End of line

Slowly, time goes by, swallowing every second as the last one, while I hear it drain, dripping, from the rest of my life.
I remember when I thought I had all the time in the world, for planning my life, make mistakes and be right before going wrong again. An invisible, infinite line of miscalculations and wise moves that would magically turn, with time, in memories, remorse, joys.
But, one day, time quickened before my eyes for an instant, the line reaped by the impact of three tons of out of control iron hitting my frail and small body. I saw all the route of my line, my rope with it’s knots and loose threads, when my eyes lost all capacity of seeing anything.
Time flied while unknown hands tried to revive me, while foreign voices tried to bring me back. I took a grip on those hands and voices, the world suddenly changed into a whirl that carried me far, very far away, at vertiginous speed. I used all my will for not allowing myself to be swallowed by that unstoppable force, holding the last knot of my life’s rope.
The whirl eased up and time stopped, expectantly, in those white wastelands in which I found myself, my body turned into an unmoving mannequin while my mind and my soul asked each other what in hell had happened.
It’s been a long time since I’m here, hidden in some unknown place of my being, trying to get back to the world, to remember again how to open my eyes, how to spell a word, the science of moving a single muscle. And, in the while, time goes by, inexorable.
I have the feeling that I’m running out of time. I feel the whirl getting closer, it still looks for me so it can finish it’s job. I hear barely familiar people crying, speaking to me, looking for me. They’ve been doing it for a while. I would want to answer, but they’re always too far, my voice gets lost in the void and theirs in the wind.
I notice a somewhat known hand that covers mine, and in my heart springs the hope that maybe it would be a new knot that could help me to keep on spinning my rope. I feel the warmth, the faith, the courage. I try to get a grip on that hand, but it’s just too late, there’s no time, the whirl gobble me up and I don’t have even enough time as to grief it’s lost. I’ve crossed beyond the end of the line, the rope left behind, enveloped in distant mists.I’m going back to the home that awaits for me there, where time doesn’t exist.