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.