Stolen minutes
Time is a vague concept. One second you can feel it ticking like a time bomb. The other, everything stands still. All I do is waste time. I splurge as if no single moment counts. I hold onto minutes that have expired. I count seconds that don't matter. All that to avoid the inevitable: move forward.
Something holds me back, each time I'm ready for the jump into the unknown. It drags me back to face old habits. Unable to control the train of haunted thoughts, I crack under the pressure. Falling into the temptation. Cutting the tension to release the pressure. To feel in control. Poised memories and bad coping mechanisms form a coalition. Hitting rock bottom, time stops for a moment. It's just me and myself. Bits of me leak from the open wounds.
In the depths of the dark, minutes feel like hours. Hours of soundless suffering. Dealing with the expired minutes attached to a series of haunting images. It's tiring as the whole ordeal repeats itself day in, day out. The moon brings the brightest burn. Thoughts align like stars decorating the sky. As you connect the dots, it doesn't form a clear sign. Instead, it brings chaos.
But what causes the biggest heartache lays is the aftermath. Coming to terms with what you have done. How far you allowed the darkness to consume you. The thing I regret most, are the stolen minutes. Minutes I can't restore. Minutes I could've spent to build myself up.
I lost myself in time, not knowing how to make it stop. But at the same moment, time had slipped like sand through my fingers.
I've come so far. But each time the clock stops, I find myself at the exact same position I was before. Attached to the expired minutes. Minutes stolen by the darkness inside me.
- Ash, 2018 -
