It’s 3:22 AM at the start of this blog post and so I’ll start there.
And because scotch is on my tongue and sleep is an elusive tease right now, I may rant
with a cadence
that wants to be poetry
but falters and trips
like the stumbles of truth against silence.
Time.
Time.
Time.
Tic.
And
Then
Eventually
Toc.
As if it is both infinite and closing in on me.
Expectant and weighty.
How much should be done by now and how much can’t.
So why start anything at all.
And sit and listen to time.
Be its captive.
Be its slave.
Be its despondent fool.
Be its prey.
And wonder how did I come to this?
Feeling both incredibly old and weary with this young face still.
With hope for a far off future
and cement shoes holding you in the singular moment
that drags you ever so slowly down
until you drown
in this ocean of time
that you cannot breathe through.