The end feels already written
But is it merely ink on paper, or etched in stone?
Delicate, easily torn
Flammable, easily mutated
Or something much stronger
Only wearing with age
Slowly
As time patiently grinds it down?
Timelines are shifting
Like restless children, replacing each other
As they take their turns on the playground slide
Yes, like restless children
Displacing each other one by one now
In a twisted game of leapfrog
Where the winner gets to decide my fate
They refuse my demands to pause
To give me time to think
They just won’t hold still
I don’t know which timeline I’m on now
I probably won’t know tomorrow, either
But the question is always here:
Is this the timeline
Is this the night when I die alone?
March 3–4, 2025
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