we are products of time travel. we all have specks of the past on our skin, under our flesh, woven into our muscles. a word someone said when you were fifteen. it made its way into your gut and stays lodged there. they say when you look at the stars at night you’re looking billions of years back, but the past is closer to you than you think. just look at the scars on your wrist.
there is a black mark on my forearm that carries the hurt of yesteryear. it speaks to me still, and will continue speaking to me until we are given renewed and perfect bodies at the second coming. if you look beyond the surface, there is an imprint on my waist. a branding iron left my chest burning and then cold, but still raw. and there is lava in my heart that is more often volatile than dormant, a testament to the tectonic activity that started when the plates split eight years back. as we go about our days little shreds of time tear themselves out of the immortal fabric and stick to our souls, and try as we might, we cannot shake them off.