Ritualistic rebirth: A prose I wrote on my 20th birthday.

It takes exactly twenty four hours for the land beneath my feet to move. As I write this, all I have is four hours to gnaw off the soft bones of my beloved adolescence.

Tides carry souvenirs of a past life underneath my feet and grief keeps tapping my shoulder. I trip over memory boxes and jagged pendants begging to mean something, but the watchmaker is Time’s right hand after all- he isn’t patient. “I do not have time for grief- grief will be there tomorrow to tend to.” For now I need to know how to sharpen my teeth.

The sandglass in Time’s hand widens its neck;

Eternity pauses,

The stars stand still;

Gaia and I compete once more.

Familiarity deserts me, polarity calls my name. Somewhere in between this Red Sea, affinity stands yet again.

As I look over what once was home, on its outside— the wind howls, and the willow knocks, insistent and unyielding, begging for a place within my walls. How long can a fragile window last? What lives in the hollow of a willow? Will my blade be of any use to cut it down?

Ritualistic rebirth is what this is;

Fate shoves you into Time’s hands, the watchmaker makes himself known.

The world begins to tear itself apart, and destiny wages war.

Joy and grief stand beside one another, and the choir never strays from its notes.

The stars disappear an exact minute before the clockmaker tells me I’ve got an hour left. There is much left to leave, yet at the same time nothing at all. So much of my flesh to tear apart, so many more bones left to burn. My spirit hovers above my clueless flesh; anticipating every move.

As I reach the willow, Time sits in all his glory shamelessly. Even grief gives me the respect of taking it’s exit. Twenty seconds to midnight. The sea turns barren, the wind’s howling shrivels up into whispers.

The willow recoils it’s branches. There’s not a drop of memory in sight for me to hold onto. Joy and grief linger unlike the tide.

With much empty space to fill and such little to mourn, I let the sea ravage my past, and I embark towards the willow, this time without my blade.

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This is so dramatic LMAO

20 is a scary age though, it feels way too real, like a solidification that I’m no longer a child.

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-Zoha