The Taking Apart of a Clock
Moving still, gently then violently. A tempest in the clock that hypnotises and then wrecks, watching is all you do.
Heedless of your attention, driven by your inhibition. It leads you further into the night, pulls you by your temples and grips between your ribs. You believed this was a chase but it is your capture.
Reduced to prey, trading resolve for something that wants for nothing. Watch as parts of you atrophy. Your personhood disintegrates trying to lead a life that has not yet been cultivated.
The foetus knows when it is time, the womb accommodates. Why do you try to chase your birth? Which parts of you are lost in the attempt to accelerate your becoming. Why is this loss accepted so readily? Reach out and stop it. Replace its arms with your own. Experience that absence of pace, let your becoming unfold.
Something about living in my early twenties, being devoured by the pervasive presence of urgency. The taking apart of things takes time, as does unfolding. I go slowly, there is nowhere to be.