Months pass on a monotone. Mood meanders, but time trundles.

There is a difference. Emotions are ever a battle, fluctuating between tragedy and triumph, violent and passionate, heartbreaking, vibrant with blood and deafening with screams, unable to be contained by the borders of the exploding country.

They ever-dip and ever-rise and ever-sway from side to side. And beyond!—emotions are unpredictable in their roaming ways, their erratic movement, their uncanny ability to teleport about the universe and further. Length, breadth and height, the three dimensions, mean nothing to the soul.

The physical world and the spiritual world are utterly and entirely separate, though intertwined in so many places as one would have thought impossible. These crossovers, these portals, are known as ‘stitches in time’ by some, though they do not know it. They are tears, where a new parallax can be found that may destroy physicality and the safety of materialistic dominance.

If the rent is not mended with absolute immediacy, or the knot untangled with deft undoing fingers, the hole will grow and grow and the panoramic angle will grow and grow till it becomes inconceivable by the human mind.

Why should the two worlds not cross over, you might wonder? Why, that is the verdict of time. Time, which decreed that the physical world be its territory, where fluent indifference is the living dead and the unquestioned symptomless disease. Time has no fluctuations, no alternations. Time is direct current, stiff and rigid in its ever-forward gaze, but plodding forever and ever without the tiniest variation.

So that is me. Weeks glided by with a fixed gradient, as a sleepwalker with pearly eyes unchanging as they were tormented.

Correspondence was regular; events equally regular. Disputes with Jean and Elspeth were like extreme burns—cold to all visuality, yet ringed with an ugly searing heat. School was slow and repetitive, and it was with more ease and fewer misgivings that I slept through my all-important GCSE lectures. The more exams I had the less revision I did, and the less energy I could muster to care about it.

Swimming competitions passed by me like flies in summer. I gave a half-hearted swat, satisfied that the effort had been my best, and surrendered the memory to the absorbency of dim memory.

My contact with Felix Terrett increased, as did my regard for him—for me, an antiquated fancy coloured my life when I was bored, by imagination or not; I don’t know—and yet as time went on, the less compulsion I felt to defy all four of my parents and get social networking with which I could both heighten my relationship with Felix, and, perhaps, increase my knowledge of Bridie Domaille.

How could I betray such an attitude, while I moaned to the heartless sunset every morning that I did not know my sister? Simply because what contact we shared was sufficient. Social networking would tint our meagre friendship, which when we met was to be so pure and perfect, we always vowed.

The End

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