Lately something's been off. Favorite foods aren't so favorite anymore. Games and entertainment from three months ago make me yawn. I can feel and see (!) my body changing. My skin, a network of memories and years of reactions disguised through wrinkles and freckles and gravity leaden sags. I can feel myself letting go of friends who were actually acquaintances who were actually pricks who were actually just normal people, peers with fears (that rhymed) and hidden wishes. Clothes, colognes and other closet treasures from my free years are sitting in a thrift store on San Mateo, being handled by the flippant, impatient fingers of a girl eight years younger than me. Independent like me, girlish like me, but happy to make mistakes, adult mistakes, unlike me. I feel less resilient than her. I am less resilient than her. At 18 years old the ticking of clocks reminded us of our almost infinite time to fall in love and experience loneliness, visit Paris and learn foreign tongues, dance in backyards and sob along with old romance films where the actors cried real tears. Tripping over mistakes like pebbles caught in the nook of sidewalk cracks. At 26, the ticking of clocks remind us of time slipping away, drifting through the cracks of windows, through an open door, through keyholes and ceiling vents and plumbing. When I feel the ticking clock it feels like I'm grabbing at air sometimes. If I could just turn it off until I decide how to define my approaching future then I'd be set.
Maybe it is off and that why I feel so stagnant. Let's figure out how to turn me back on (is what she said.)
This post is filed under emo, ugh. I'm going to go write a poem about sad ghosts and watch The Craft while carving upside down crosses on my legs.
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