tic tock

Last week I was out of my mind. I kept forgetting things. My lunch on the kitchen counter. My phone at work. My work keys at home. I forgot the days, as if an oxygen tube detached from my head. I couldn’t breathe.

I ran from then to now. Ran until I couldn’t. I’m tethered. I’m fettered. I’m lodged. And Time doesn’t care. Sadist.

Masochist, it calls me.

We’re intimate, Time and I. And I’m the bitch.

It screeches to a halt for amusement. Like paintings on an old urn. What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What beauty never fades?

I know of one.

 

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Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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