Everything has an expiration date

by Chua Han Au

Time has never been more abhorrent than at present. I use the expiration dates on loaves of bread to gauge time; I use the 12 hour time interval to constantly remind myself that the night is near. I’m seated in the train cabin and everything feels peculiarly unsettling, as though every brick and wood is gravely vulnerable — the tracks that the train is on could give way very easily, the people here might perish faster than it takes to blink.

Time has never been more abhorrent than at present. It has reminded me of how transient interactions were and will always be. The brutality of brief conversations and swift contact. Salutations are frivolous, smiles are perfunctory. Time erodes the very relationship a butterfly has with a marigold.

Time commits swift murders, lawlessly and perennially.

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