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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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![]() Every night when the dark eats up all your peace and pleasure through its gritted teeth, and lets you fall prey to your self-made grief, Time just slowly turns the page of this book like a good reader. It spectates you,
from the time you cry like a child in a cradle only to see a familiar face upon you. To the moments you hold a girl by her waist, delicately kissing the soft of her skin. And you beg for it to go slow, because you know you'll lose her. Everything you own, every loyal touch will leave, one day. You beg to never grow old. You want to freeze the daylight right when you feel a subtle warmth of joy, of happiness, of a pleasure that feels death long. But that child in the cradle of innocence grows old, darling and then he walks the earth with a guilt of not living his best that he is "growing old" and not "young." The seasons change, colors melt, the shining moon gets broken because the Time doesn't owe anyone anything. And when the sun rises up on the other side of the mountain, I can't decide if I want to grow old or not, like my daadi who, as soon as the clock strikes 8, locks her eyes at the door, waiting for her son. (Translation: daadi - grandma) Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
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