mist-of-time

[mist-of-time]

Stagnation, like certain shades of yellow and the taste of medicine, is something I cannot love;

Stagnation fills my boots, leaving my socks uncomfortably wet, my toes sticking together, squirming in the soggy heat;

The cool of a monsoon night gives way to the rising sun in all its glory, but first the air must weigh down hot on your layers of bedsheets and bedclothes

And you kick it off, frustrated, but the feeling is replaced by the too-cold air, thermodynamics mocking your body's thermoregulation

Eventually, the sun rests on your tired skin, and stays there,

Stagnating.

It's the ocean's fault, really,

The wind stirring water into climbing waves that crash in foaming thunder,

The sand turning dark in the water that laps at the beach's lip;

I grew up there,

I have tasted brine on my face, salt on my fingers,

Stood on the unsteady legs of a squealing girl and held my father's hand,

As we dared as far as we dared to go out and let the waves tease us, like a see-saw, pushing and pulling;

What else is to be expected of such a child?

I yank back curtains and thrust a hand out in pouring rain,

I dip weary feet in the cold streams that gush farther from waterfalls,

I stare and stare at rivers that ebb and flow, carving worlds into the land, the wind fresh above them;

But ponds, silent and still, murky, shallow creatures—

Oh, I don't like ponds.

Once, my grandparents lived in a little house,

And there was a pool of water, somewhat like a very deep basin, where swam little fishes,

(koi, I think, but memory has always been fond of fleeing, like the fish)

We children, we would stick out fingers into the waters edge,

Not our hands, not all the way to the wrists,

Simply the fingers, the very tips, and—

We laughed, would laugh, giggling under the heavy sun right beside the pool on our tiptoea:

The fish were nibbling our fingers, and we were fond of tickling, and being tickled;

I got the chance to feed them sometimes, those funny grains they deserved,

I never came to the pool save for the fish,

and maybe to consider the water striders, solemn beings,

long of leg and strange in the way they skid the water like we ran along the ground;

I kept my distance, and they kept theirs,

I near one stone edge, beside the fish, they on the other, amongst the lily pads;

Stagnation is something I cannot love;

Stagnation, however, bears my deepest respect;

In the tropical latitudes, there exists a greater biodiversity, for the sun rests along those lines the longest,

In the ponds of the earth, there exists an entire self-sustaining ecosystem, for the light rests there the greatest,

In all of humankind, there exists an incredible world of tissues and thoughts and impulses and bones, for God's thoughts rest there continually;

Perhaps stagnation is not all it seems,

Perhaps there is more in the waiting than in motion

~how long, o Lord? [of june the eighth, 2025]

@thatfriendlyanon @reading-by-the-pale-moonlight

Potentially a fun writing game, reblog and give prev a single noun and then they write a quick little poem about it

[mist-of-time]

the world is being undone

in a million ways, tiny and great

and I am sitting in my room

on my bed

reading about calculus

and learning

integration

~ relations and functions and the ending of the world [of may the sixth]

[mist-of-time]

The current in a Resistor-Inductor circuit lags behind voltage

By an angle of pi by two,

that is,

By an angle of ninety degrees.

Ninety degrees! That's the angle between two of the axes on a Cartesian plane,

the angle made by perpendicular lines,

the angle made by the arms of the same clock that tells me it's late, too late.

Does the current ever feel those ninety degrees of late, too late?

Does it alternate between determination and despair where it lags?

But the peculiar thing is that

That same current when flowing in a Resistor-Capacitor circuit leads the voltage

By an angle of pi by two,

that is,

By an angle of ninety degrees.

Another situation altogether, dealing with another electrical component,

And the current leads.

I'm still learning physics

But sometimes it feels like I am current in the RL circuit,

Alternating between determination and despair,

Caught ninety degrees — thirty minutes — too late.

But,

I suppose,

There will come a time,

When I will find myself,

Leading instead,

By ninety degrees,

Still alternating

Between

Determination

And

Despair.

~ phasor diagrams in the twelfth grade [of may the first]

[mist-of-time]

inside, the girl is washing her hair;

outside, the rain is washing the world

~ a shower [of may the first]

[mist-of-time]

the sky is cloud blue

the children are riding their bicycles outside

my legs ache and my feet hurt

there's a new imperfection on the skin of nose

I will wear two socks on one foot to make the pain go away

fairylights will never be anything short of pretty

I hope it rains today

the blue patterns on cream pillowcases

the boy throwing his ball up into the air

my leg still aches — I hope I make it

it's hot, or humid, I can never tell which

today was slow and beautiful and kind

I don't know how tomorrow will be

but today was slow and beautiful and kind

~ this is not poetry; this is love [of april the thirtieth, 2025]

[mist-of-time]

lights on that last unbearable length of road

the room is brown, the sun hidden behind thick clouds and hazy curtains;

there is silence, and there is peace, and the heart beats like the drizzling rain

I crane my neck from the dining table to watch them make ice cream on the television

and I forget for one long minute,

each of the sixty seconds stretching out,

I forget the weight of responsibility.

once more, I am only

a very small and unburdened child

~ [of april the thirtieth, 2025]

[mist-of-time]

O Father, sing to me my eulogy

another time

let my heart die

another time

it is good to put off the old, shedding and moulting my skin

another time

the new is strange and fearsome, exhilarating and horrific; I love it and I fear it

another time

but let me learn and let me rise and let me live

another time

O Father, sing to me my lullaby

another time

~ untitled II [of april the seventh, 2025]

[mist-of-time]

they will peel back my layers

and they will find empty space where my soul should have been

they will ask me where I am

I will weep starlight and shake my head

Lost — I have never been

~ untitled I [of april the seventh, 2025]

[mist-of-time]

The world turns and I am left behind; the ocean's laughter a lonely echo, haunting the chambers of the shell

[mist-of-time]

"You've mistaken me."

"For what?"

"Kindness."

[mist-of-time]

I am licking the remnants of the chocolate from the crevices of my teeth,

and I wonder if this is how it must be to be starved of love.

[mist-of-time]

"Speaking to you is like getting myself gutted, but I like the smell of blood."