Spent the first half of my twenties depressed, just
like the first half of my teens. What a waste of life,

Unable to find love, to feel. I reckon there's potential
yet, I'd summon the will, tap the reservoir, let being
flow from my repertoire. What spurred this poem?
Spent today studying from my desk
while the sun was shining

and out the window
I could see a few kids
fooling about in fine

weather, slacklining
and chatting and enjoying
themselves, making memories. Wished I was out there
with them. Then realised they're not much younger than
I, and I thought them kids. Yesterday I was cycling home
and for a moment I thought: Soon I'll be old. Sooner than
I'd have thought it would seem. I'm 23.
Time is a construct
and age, a mindset.

College is quiet now
as dusk comes to a close
and the artificial lighting
fires up to clothe campus in
that kenopsic glow, those silent
shadows yawn as the night dawns
and darkness falls but the light above
my desk is a lone beacon. "I'm still here"

writing a thousand letters and
wishing for a thousands rests.

What was it I endured for three tears throughout
these years. I hate being a man, a man so Othered

by virtue of who I am. Took a holiday from reality
sponsored by a thienodiazepine, the rebound anxiety
may have got to me but I wanted to be ou'r it, to

be outta my mind, just like the first time. I felt
like I deserved it because it granted me such relief
and that felt so perfect; to remember I'm just a human

trying to escape her human plans.