On Authenticity & Time

By Azaan Izzam

The minute seems so concrete,

But there is nothing more uncertain,

And clouded in wordy delusion.

Time laughs through this trickery,

And shields itself with the agent of memory.

Then the sorcery of manifestation of belief and action,

Gives us a sense of hope and meaning.

All but farce.

This inauthenticity, the mold on the soul.

A guillotine freefalling on my identity.

The type of identity before words,

Before thoughts and ideas,

In parallel with time.

The horror of being stuck,

Of being only an extension of what is given to me.

Unable to birth myself, my thoughts seem stuck like flatulence

Born from affirmations of some one else’s idea of life.

My time alone is the safest and scariest place, I realize.

The responsibility of loving and hating myself is now innate.

Unclear about expectations, those of me and those I long from living,

Yet I must go on and on and on… with this non-clarity.

By Azaan Izzam