I’m wondering what the slow process of going feral looks like when sped up and compounded. I’m wondering about that a lot recently. You might be too.
I’m wondering if, by the time I’m allowed human contact again, I will no longer be suitable for it. Smooth river rocks and jagged thorns pressing out against skin stretched too tightly.
I used to take the batteries out of clocks because I couldn’t take the sound time made as it ticked by. Fifteen years later and it’s finally caught up to me. Minutes, hours, and days pass by with no discernible sound. I’ve been told that time is a man-made invention. That it exists for us because we collectively agree it has meaning. I’m wondering when we might agree on that again.