Aug. 29th, 2013

I feel old
But when I say that at 30 it misses meaning
I feel my age
I feel the years behind me piled against my back
The years before me looming with twice their weight or more
I feel pressed in on all sides
By memory
By possibility
By the terrible enormity of a finite life
Were it indefinite I could perhaps let go of the size of it
(An infinity of anything balances out to nothing inside of it)
But instead here I wait
Counting my paces
Back and forth
Touching the future and then the past













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mayamaia

February 2015

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