Anticlimactic

"TOMORROW IS A BRAND NEW DAY"

We are a mess of aching bones, weary sighs, and fates that have been intertwined

over and
over and
over again.

I am so tired of having to hold onto nothing.

Recently it feels like the sun takes longer to rise and is quicker to set - this hazy observation has left me with a sense of both longing and dread - I wish I could disappear just as quickly, just as easily, and reappear the next day without so much of a hesitation.

I often forget that tomorrow is a brand new day; it's surprising to witness just how quickly time seems to escape us. It doesn't wait for anything, it's constantly wasting away whether we're ready or not - tick, tick, tick, tick - the seconds fly by and suddenly, the sun has set, or it has risen once again, and I often feel like I don't quite belong in my own body.

These thoughts are mine and mine only, sometimes I have to remind myself of that. I've found it increasingly difficult to put my scattered thoughts into words when there was once an era when I would pass my each and every passing day with leisure and nonchalance. Now, it feels like time is slipping away from me, writhing against the cold hard ground as I attempt to grasp it with my shaking fingers - my patience is thinning and my mind has become a tangled bush of tangent thoughts, and I can't get back time. I can't grasp it, I can't feel it against the palm of my hand, and my mind is restless in assuming what it would feel like against the fragile surface of my flesh - if it has a texture or if it would seep right through my skin and into my bones.

What if?

My mind has drifted off again. I can't seem to come up with a good enough thought for tomorrow - my thoughts, they just don't seem right, and a part of me wants to be able to know. I wonder what it's like to be so sure of yourself. I wonder if my life would be any different. Perhaps I would - ah, there it is, the great perhaps - it's such a delicate word, so elegantly put together and used, yet sturdy and raw and completely unsure of itself. It bumbles around with each of its letters and I find that reassuring.

I don't know what to make of tomorrow, nor do I know what to make of the day after, or after, or there after. Lately, I seem to not know a lot of things. But there is one thing that I do know for certain: tomorrow is a brand new day.

The sun will rise, as it does, and it will set again, and it will be a brand new day

over and
over and
over again.

For now I'll remain a memory.