93 years since its discovery and pluto still hasn't made a full orbit around the sun. my time feels like pluto’s sometimes. endless, long enough to make you question what day of the week it is, long enough to make you think, “has it already been a year?” a time not marked by events or change or laps around the sun, but by an endless, gripping ache that never subsides. days on earth might as well be 153 hours, years might as well be 248 times the length. i don’t think i’d know the difference. days are days are days are days and they don’t have beginnings or ends. i wake up, feel bad about it, sleep, wake up, feel bad about it, sleep, never stop to question if i’ve hit a wall or an opening yet, if the day's finally come to forgive myself. if enough time has passed to finally give up on the fix, stop trying to make sense of any of this.

i don’t think there’s much left to say. only bad feelings to feel.