Thursday

Behind my eyeballs I ache with tiredness.

My hands, though young, feel gnarled and arthritic.

These worldly, big questions I cannot answer plague my conscience, and I feel lost in the crowd, as if the lens within which my life is captured has spun upwards - outwards into the atmosphere, faster and faster, until I am but a speck and indistinguishable from other moving specks, each looking upwards and outwards, each identical from this god-like distance.