This is a strictly non-medical way of looking at pain relief.
The passage of time is horrifying to face and acknowledge. But can it lead to something beautiful?
A poem that squeezes humor and even transcendence out of my obsessiveness, ineptitude, and rotten choices. I'm guessing many can relate in various ways.
I woke up in utter confusion, my body half-off the bed, my mind buzzing with questions.
We're always talking about "it." It is glorious outside. It is a shame. But what IS this "it"?
What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
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