i am now older than i have ever been,
and younger than i will ever be,
because time doesn't stop, doesn't wait,
doesn't falter of hesitate,
and i try my best to follow suit
but i cannot.
i cannot, because my life is centred
upon every single moment,
and it has slowed even as all else
continues.
the path i tread has been walked before:
regret is old-fashioned;
guilt is recycled;
grief is ordinary.
joy is embarrassing and anger is too.
the long silences and the broken throats
are nothing short of cliché.
oh, it is not to be true,
that these feelings that are so poignant
could be so dull, too,
so overused and mandatory.
to hell with all feeling:
i shall be a shell,
without warmth or cold,
without sound or silence.
i shall be the rushing in your ears
and the blushing of your breaking vein.
i shall be no-one to anyone
because everyone needs someone
and i don't want to be that to them.
i shall exist in myself,
in a place where not even time -
condescending, omnipotent, fragile time,
raising its eyebrows at me as it sips its heady wine in the corner of the room -
can touch me.
to hell with time,
and to hell with you,
you wretched people digging up
even graves to find some bloody meaning.
meaning is pointless if it was not meant in the first place, and i mean nothing
by anything i said or will say.
i just want peace from time,
as it tears me through, as if i were a paper doll
and playtime was over. 
recycle me, because everyone is reused,
everyone is a character that has been played before,
and there are patterns in each of us,
that all of us follow.
i am too big-headed for my tiny self,
i am dust caught briefly in light,
and honestly, to hell with me too.
life is life, time is time, i am me,
and i am sick of it all.