Fluid

these days, time has lost its significance. i can no longer tell whether it’s morning or evening. time seems to flow in an unhurried rhythm, not really waiting or stopping for me to hop on its wagon. there are no destinations or pauses, no speedbumps or intersections; only a droning flow, a fluid figure eight that goes on and on and on. it is perfect and unforgiving. sometimes, in my semiconscious state, i wonder whether it’s time that has lost its significance, or simply myself.