The clock ticks and the chasm withing me grows in proportion. Time winds differently in some days, and most, the plaintive and long seconds stretch as if you're stuck in a loop. Despairingly, the games we play as social beings give us a pleasant afterthought to the things we lack to do, and things we should've done in the span of time.
We are a locked up treasure box that, when opened, is a deep, cavernous delve. Sound echoes around the walls of our inner thoughts, rich with desire. Time reflects this mysterious grotto— we sit on a stone, counting all the primitive thoughts that pass by. The texture of the stone, the roughness of time, the chasm roars, and we listen and watch. No other thing to do but clutch our hands, look at the clock, our sun, and see how slow time can march.
//k.u.
YOU ARE READING
The Quarantine Book
Poetry"--the stillness of isolation, the blazing aloneness, the rich moments with loved ones, and the sole solitude of the person. The rumination of a bored writer, a reflection of the months, a reaction to the silence and loudness of life. It's a methodi...
