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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() You will find happiness an hour from a minute from now and that’s it, she tells herself. But is now present or perpetual? All she sees are haphazard “routines” stacking up in front of her like rotting pancakes Time was an illusion until it wasn’t;
sanity’s queen, she had dictated the clock’s pace to twist little moments into candy canes But now the clock runs by its own hands; it has grown fat with time and power, boasts beer-belly of gloat as mobs of ticks imitate each other. The chords ring like madness. All anyone spouts is, be strong, so she tries to find new little moments: blinded hunter, she runs a manic search for escapism. Eventually she can only interrogate herself: Why do you only appreciate presence from absence? Or are people simply fickle, and the world mad? But do you really dare define anything in this crumbling dictionary? She pretends to find small nothings in herself that she knows do not matter, will never matter (what is ‘matter?’ it, too, has lost itself underneath the clock's meaty arm) But she won’t stop until time starts being subjective again, until an hour from a minute from now or so Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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