Slowness

 Here is the world where solitude is greener than green leaves, 50 seems more accessible than 20, 25, or even just one year, one month, one day earlier than now. Here is the time where now seems eternity, or the slow progression of your daily helplessness, your daily walk towards somewhere into the bustle, and your daily retreat 8 hours later into the silence you don't recover from. Here is where you breathe out your internal fire like smokey substances into the fog of nowhere, you convert yourself as fuel to the average ego, and you have something sacred within you like a diamond or a dream, or a single hallucinatory obsession enough to kill yourself, and you enslave yourself to the sacred, to that dream, to that unreasonable height of despair, only to find yourself busy in browsing through gleaming objects of nonsense in shopping malls, in YouTube, in green curry, in spirituality or something as mundane as a bottle of rum.

Here is the world to be truly dejected about yourself and probably let it all go when the time feels right. Probably brush your teeth before you hang yourself, or maybe don't. Maybe read today's news before that. Maybe drink the last glass of milk or maybe just poison yourself. Here is the world to be able to not care about that, or your neighbor's cat, or anything for that matter. Here is the world, with you or without you, or something in between, which has already happened. Maybe understand the slowness of the world before everything else is left to be understood. Here was then, Here is now, here will be.