The time

What time is it? I look at the clock hanging over my bed. Its hands are made of thin lines of steel, gossamer threads that glint in the morning sun. One short hand points towards ‘7’ the other, longer, towards ‘23’. Twenty-three? Four plus three. ‘4’ with three tiny spaces after. The long hand points to three spaces after 4. The time is 7, three spaces after 4.

Apathy

That sense of paralysis crept up on me again. You know, the kind that asks, "What's the point? We are all slowly dying anyway." The nitpicking at the conditions of everyday life. Of how it operates, of how it propagates itself. How it rudely intrudes into my daily habits like a mildly disliked acquaintance who presumes themselves invited to a friends-only event. And in their wake, leaves behind a vague sense of unease and resentment. Every day, I am formed by a totality which itself has one foot sunk helplessly into the recesses of time while the other dangling limb reaches limply out to grasp a future it cannot  yet see clearly. Ossified in this chrysalis state, never to emerge whole. I am stuck in its midst. A stick in the mud. So what shall I do with my time? Choose to forget my circumstances. My motto for this year is:- Don't think, just do. Just do, just do, just do.