The novelty of youth: the stupid act of self discovery
During nights when the sky is the perfect blue
(the blue that fills your lungs with sweet melancholy),
the moon alive in your palms and the harsh realities of the day
has rushed down with the sun:
you used to sit alone, in a huge box, holding on to an
empty existence.
In the corner furthest away sat three trinkets
Sitting in a smaller box than usual; half of it filled to the
brim with who I am. In the corner sits the future, past and present mangled together like dirty laundry in a chair.
And I'm there; at the brink of existence; waiting for the point at which the vortex of time would
collapse
thereby spilling every inch of who I am into myself as
though force-feeding a child.
A now after the end and
before the beginning.
neither here nor there;
I will exist a full living in the box.
The novelty of youth:
the stupid act of self discovery
