Misplaced

Sad tremors inside,
time flying by me,
me flying by time,
grim feeling overhead,
something ominous,

something outside of the day
pulling me away
from clocks,
from time,
from myself.
I see myself now,
sitting there in the library then,
frantically typing,
dislocated;
how strange time felt.
After 10 minutes (clock sprinting)
the computer asked
if I wanted more time,
and I seized the time --
"Yes! More time!"
because, you see, there's never enough,
never enough time,
before things change abruptly
and slip away
as though they had never been,
and the world around me shifts --
which would be bad enough all by itself --
but then, I also shift.

Which way are we pointing now?
Is grief this bad?
Is this grief?