Time has forgotten me. Or am I detached?
Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Months. Years—what’s the difference? They are all a blur of memories. No distinction to tell them apart. Seconds drip like a broken faucet while the minutes evaporate, leaving behind hollow hours and forsaking my day. A month is only a picture on the calendar. A year is just a number.
No where to be. No where to go. The seasons tapped me on the shoulder, but I never turned around. The cold breath of winter tried to remind me. Sunshine tried to burn me. Rain tried to drown me. Leaves tried to suffocate me.
Where is everybody? I see faces, but they don’t see me. I’m transparent like a breeze—my reflection—is my only friend. But even that will become clouded by a smear of hazy memories, leaving me to wonder if I ever existed.
Yes, I am detached.