Whirring to life, your annual psychoritual.
What is your definition of

Ten seconds.
A death-moment's reflection rolls over the room; grainy and grayscaled. The past that shaped you, or the one you shaped, reveals long-forgotten dreams now at your ten diminishing fingertips.

     A dry well in the rainy season floods faster than you drive.  To the surface, over the surface, erasing the surface.

     And the dammed river inundates your village of happy people:
          Shaped playdoh on the table under rain-painted windows;

Nicknames painstakingly documented;
          Faded handprints traced in forbidden places.

     The lake of the unrecognizable shimmers under a constellation of Christmas lights.
          Spring cleaning, or holiday décor?

When the tide comes in over your disintegrated footprints, where do they go? Washed away by the steady ebb and flow? Filled in under the weight of the beach? Hiding under a protective surface? Or just waiting to be danced upon again, reformed and new?

     The original art hides under layers of insecure paint.
     A whitewash wipes it clean for the sake of reuse.
          Tabula arenae.

     And you can wonder whether the stars above you are just a mangled window or a magnifying glass.

     Resolutions scribble over the stenciled pages of the past. Revolutions throw them away.

     So what?



The End

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