An hour (don’t fall
back, you’ve come this
far) is a round thing, expanding
into the full curve of
its Self, or perhaps
flattened so thin there
remains no room even
for a speck of memory, distorted
infinity of all or nothing; ticked
off and
returned, to the
place where
we started.
Does the word make you think of the past or the future?
What does getting older feel like for you?
How do events from long ago impact you today?
At the very beginning and end of life, time slows. We mark births and deaths to the second; minutes, then hours, days, weeks, months, years. Then it starts to reverse.
My thinking and writing today are very much like my sense of time. Distorted, fragmented. Tear-soaked. I just don’t feel like trying to make sense of myself today.
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