The Fickleness of Time

I am stuck. Very stuck.

It seems as if you have managed to bewitch time, bringing it to a grinding, painful halt. And while sun goes up and comes down each day, and cacophony of chaos too grows louder with each passing day. For all things practical, time does flow.

For each thing, untouched by you, days pass with as much significance as they can muster. For the mountains, and the vales, and depths of ocean curtailed, time passes, as it passes around me. Dragging with it my limp, numb body. For all the beast and men and mer too, it passes, for some slow, other fast but those are just its fickleness. For them it never seems to stop.

Yet I am stuck it time, even as it rampages and reaps. Muscles through space, and I scream and I scream. I scream parched and pained, to no avail and to no escape.

You draw me in, with last bit of you that’s left. And I am stuck. I am so very stuck. Stuck on every and each thing, that brought me to you.

Every day I wake up, and it’s a new day. Though I grow ever suspicious it the same day, just called by different names. For they do very little in way of blurring the memory of your touch, your sweet taste, serene sadness and tamed lust. It just piles uselessly days, years and months. The very insignificance of time evokes in me this primal, panicked fear.

 I know of time, and its potency to kill. Yet your memories frolic, reveling in their apparent undeath. Neutered and shame, time limps its head. Flows soft, killing me along, ever so slow, ever so raw. As I madden in face of time’s subtle revenge.

You take over more and more as parts of my sanity let go. For separating me from myself, is how time, ever so sincere, it makes me good, it makes me whole. Until it finds for it amusement a new petty soul.

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