Nov. 19, 2017

I’m flipping through pages, seeing how much l have left of the chapter. Checking the time on the screen of my phone, although the number I see means nothing to me. I think back to a few hours ago, the new age confusion I experienced while getting coffee before class and glancing around the cafe--unable to find a clock in sight. We’re all keeping time on our own accord anymore.

I’ve been finding myself running through days like flipping pages, without any definitive idea of when the chapter will finally be over, because months can’t divide the sections of a year as tidily as they do on a calendar.  

I am speaking quickly on one end of a receiver, a 212 number somebody else dialed, telling me to slow down because they can’t understand what I am saying. I think to myself that I don’t need to speak more slowly, they just need to think more quickly as I drag through making a hotel reservation before hanging up the phone and saying it outloud to one of my coworkers. He repeats the last part slowly, and laughs in a way that indicates I have fallen deep into full blown Daria mode and I recognize I am treading dangerous grounds of letting it stick.

I’m phasing in and out of a chronological plot line, jumping back and forth between what is and what is, although they are much different present tenses. I’m letting myself seep into the planescape multiverse, because it is uncomfortable and unknown. One for testing my own limits, exploring boundaries that have a stigma against being broken.

I am wondering if this is what I should be doing or if everyone else is right in their boxed routine.