The Paradox of the Present (poem)

Time is at the back of my mind
     Always solemnly stood
     Always slipping away
     My looming death understood.

Unrivalled motivator
     The greatest sapper of strength;
     How old am I now? Drawn thin
     Over maximal length.

Bead of sweat trickling slowly
     Down my brow and past my eye;
     How can that be the time? --
     I haven't found out why:

Why I dream the things I do;
     Why I love and hate so vehemently --
     Why I aim for such heights
     So quickly, so confidently.

Am I defined by singular
     Moments of instinctive chance?
     Or am I the series?
     Sum-total or momentary glance?

Passionate moments by far -- by far --
     My fondest memories,
     Yet life is spent in waiting;
     Thus passion atrophies.

The heat of blood once boiling
     Cools to the point of freezing --
     Regret sets in -- in horror
     My nerves need swift appeasing.

Who am I? ------
     If not that passionate man,
     Then who? The in-between totality?
     The being I first began?

More and more it seems to me that 'I'
     Was never very fixed --
     Always (just like the present)
     Hovering there -- betwixt.

Betwixt two times: one where words
     Archaic forever
     (My mind: words never died)
     The other -- wherever ...

Wherever 'I' am now:
     Here I don't quite feel at ease;
     Confident -- yet paranoid;
     Fading away by degrees.

Like the paradox of the heap
     I'm lost under inspection:
     I exist solely during
     Moments of self-reflection.