by MICHAELA KRAWCZYK - May 8, 2019
What do we call a world where the week is the worst part of the month? And what do we name a life
in which a person begrudges the beginning of the day
before it has even begun?
The hour we change our clock to is the same hour we use to set a bomb,
its fuse burning away as fast as the seconds of sleep we promise to ourselves the next day.
What do we call a world when time is rushed, outcomes forced, and opportunities missed?
The generation craving innovation is the same generation blurring together days;
fusing the experiences and layering them like glass,
subtly distorting the view and perception of everyday values.
Experiences overlooked, knowledge ignored, solutions found undiscovered, and an age of explorers left alone, holding a corrupt map of glass.
What do we call a world in which years are too fast but hours too long?
How can a people fear the passing of life,
yet strive to push forward the impatience of time?
The man crying at his daughter’s graduation
is the same man checking his watch during the ceremony.
And the man digging graves for a living is the same man using that shovel, like the hand of a clock, to carve the sinkholes of contradictory ideals in which this society continues to fall.
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