When you’re me, time turns
drags itself to a start (read: stop) and then races to a still
or maybe it’s first a still and then a start (read: stop)?
Wait, wasn’t that what I said in the first place?
Never mind. Moving on.
How do I just be, not always only at a stop, start or a still?
Run says one and gentle says the other.
How do I just be, not always only at a stop, start or a still?
Oh. Wait.
Moving. On.
and on and on.
Four Mondays and then a Sunday to a week
That’s five, the other two maybe lost
in a stop (read: start) and a still?
once, twice and then never.
Or always.
How do I just be, not always only at a stop, start or a still?
Run says one and gentle says the other.
How do I just be, not always only at a stop, start or a still?
When the ground
beneath your feet
feels like water
and everything above it
is a masked grey
happier yellows and deeper blues
whispered secrets, never yours.
How do I just be, not always at a stop, start or a still?
Run says one and gentle says the other.
How do I just be, not always at a stop, start or a still?
When you’re me, time turns.

This poem is written by Sanjana Shroff. Slightly all over the place and absolutely obsessed with food, Shroff turns to art, photography and writing when they are at their worst and also when they are at their best. 

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