by Ellen Gwin

My teeth are decaying, rotting from the inside out. Years of swallowing bile laced confabulations finally decomposed the nerves within and made me numb to my next glass of gin. Bitter and crude but honest I am, no one deigns to come near my foul speaking breath. In solitude but not alone, I let my words flow. 

Friends, Americans, Countrymen lend me your nose. I come to bury “fresh breath,” not to praise it. The evil that one hides will always leak out; the good is often found in brutal honesty. So let it rest with fresh breath. Let those around me be solely filled with stinky sighs. 

Oh but the judgement! Those painted with bruised lips have lost their reason; the pain is not worth the infliction. Bear with me; I do not prefer the stench of bad breath but I must give pause to “fresh breath” in the name of sincerity. 

–Obviously the last two stanzas are inspired by Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar

I don’t really know what I want to do with this yet but I really like it so please enjoy.

Fuck. Awake again, I think to myself as the thunder claps into my ears. It’s 8:00 am but it’s so dark it could be 3:00 am. 3:00 am. That’s my favorite time; to bask in the glory of stillness. Quietude, everyone in the world feels it but me and my racing heart. I wonder what it’s like to feel so passive in your own life that you can let your guard down for even a moment; even in my sleep I battle the disillusions of my palpitating ticker.  

Ticker, clock, time. That’s another concept I struggle with. Everyone seems to so willingly accept the hours forced upon them, building fulfilled, satisfied lives around in the midst of the organized chaos. It’s not so much I do not like the idea of working but perhaps that I do not like the idea of working the same hours every day. If I am inside every day from 9:00 am-5:00 pm I would never see the morning glories return and shrivel until they awaken again the next day, I would never get blinded by the sun right as it hits the center of the sky, just rarely would I see a firefly light my path home. 

To be a captive to time is to lack freedom for the simple joys of life, the real essence of vitality, of living. To drink the sunlight like you do not remember the sunset, to sing your favorite song like it does not have an end, to love a pet like it will live as long as you. These are just some of the alleviations from the cruelty of Father Time but only if only one can forget his lurking presence.

So here I am awake at 8:00 am during a thunderstorm trying to decide the best way to not allow time to conquer me. I could seize the moment and stroll in the rain. I imagine it being quite romantic: somber, cynical thoughts and drizzling drops. I could also have a cozy cup of tea and read stories of the witches under a fuzzy blanket. I’ve always enjoyed witchcraft, immortal women taking control of their own fate through complex concoctions. Or option three, I could ignore the day completely and allow the dark clouds to cover my eyes as I fall back into a deep, ignorant slumber.