Sometimes the hours are all broken

Like time itself is broken, clocks shattered on the floor with useless hands just pointing up through shattered glass, and time itself is leaking out in mercurial puddles. It’s days that are not days, hours that are not hours, minutes that are not minutes, seconds that don’t exist because seconds aren’t real anyway. Time is just something that tries to exist but doesn’t exist, not except in a way that we want it to exist, it moves fast or slow just based on perception alone. Hours can stretch or compress depending on everything that’s done, but now the hours just seem to exist and time seem to exist all in a broken timeless state. A state that is neither but everything all at once.

I wonder who I am- does time dictate the changes in personality of a person? How can we change and still stay connected to who we were, who wanted to be, what we wished out futures would look like? It’s hard to conceal these feelings somehow- all the promises of childhood that end up just being wasted on slips of paper and set adrift in the ocean. It’s hard not seeing stars that were the same stars when you were a kid and wondering where that part of you went so long ago. Maybe it’s still here, maybe it’s not, but there has to be a connection of some sort, an onion skin over reality, each version of yourself like a shadow, connecting all time with memory tissues stretched thin like the skin on a face of a drum, ready to be beaten and torn apart with the thunder of the beating.

Maybe somehow there is a song that connects all points of your life, or a smell, or a place that’s barely changes every year over the years. All those promises rear up and take shape and then what? Are you somehow forced to honor this version, this perception of you that you made promises to ages ago? Like photographs this version is faded and lingering like a ghost. Do you owe any promises to ghosts? Do they have anything for you anymore than just empty rage at night, poltergeist  actions that drown out your thoughts?

Yet when the memories come back somehow, somehow, you feel the loss of who you were and what you became. Even though it’s just a ghost it hangs around you, and you can’t help it the loss is there, everything lost is still there, and when you think back to standing on the beach and seeing the sky set into stars and milky way overhead like an cloud explosion of stars you can’t stop being who you wanted to be so long ago. All that change is now balled up and shoved into somewhere else, and you have to think about those things you lost. Was it you who was lost too? Can you ever tug on those chords and get the lost pieces back? Or have the been surrendered into the tides of time, to the broken hour hands scattered across floors?

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