Lucia Fischer

Time slows when you enter a void.
Whether of your own doing,
Or having them thrust upon a life.

Recalling a void appears as a blip.
As if the years spent in solitude merged and compiled on top of one another into a single yesterday.

Yesterday I was five years old, reaching for my mother's hand.
Yesterday you were twenty, reaching for a false future.
Yesterday I am thirty, reaching for anything.

I’ve given up trying to predict these moments of black. Trying to gauge how and when to move.
They operate on their own, aiming straight-for passed me.

Victims to their graze and the imprints that they leave.

Tempted to plunge into the darkness.
Or is it the light?

 

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