Post by Katpride on May 28, 2023 1:52:11 GMT
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Lark is nineteen and the world rests on their shoulders. There is no older, wiser version of themself to rely on. They are the final draft, the last line of defense, the pinnacle of everything they’ll ever achieve. Their mind is heavy with memories, their steps are sure, and their heart aches when they think too long about their age.
They’re older than they look, even factoring in the sleeplessness that makes strangers look at them with pity. They stopped keeping track long ago, the actual number buried somewhere amid the loops and spirals and corners of their Gordian knot of a timeline. But they keep moving, and they don’t think about it.
There are many loops to tidy up, tasks aplenty to keep them busy. They’re the responsible one, the adult who guides their younger self through their first bike ride, who arranges for car rentals and pays for their apartment and takes care of a dozen other things they didn’t even think to question when they encountered them the first time around.
They keep the plates spinning and the fires lit, arranging happy coincidences and keeping watch over carefree moments so that their younger selves can be free. They remember how important it will be, is, was. They remember thinking their future self always seemed busy, always on the move, always a few steps ahead of the curve. It’s all true, of course, but the truth is less glamorous than they thought it’d be.
There’s no time to waste, and as such there’s no time to slow down. When they’re in the past, their body doesn’t age. It doesn’t need food or sleep. It doesn’t heal, but injuries don’t get worse either. They learned these things as soon as they were old enough to need to know them.
At first, they were a little mad that their future self hadn’t told them sooner. Then they started catching up, and they realized exactly why they’d done it, why they’ll follow this continuity loop to its end.
They don’t need to sleep, but they still feel the exhaustion building up until it drops them. There’s no time for nightmares, but they never quite feel rested when they drag themself out again. Their younger self doesn’t need to know that, not until they’re caught up.
Not until the future becomes the present, and someday becomes now. Better to be carefree, and leave the work and the worry and the weariness for later.
They tuck the sheets of their childhood bed under the chin of their childhood self and try to remember who they’re doing this for.
Lark is nineteen and the world rests on their shoulders. There is no older, wiser version of themself to rely on. They are the final draft, the last line of defense, the pinnacle of everything they’ll ever achieve. Their mind is heavy with memories, their steps are sure, and their heart aches when they think too long about their age.
They’re older than they look, even factoring in the sleeplessness that makes strangers look at them with pity. They stopped keeping track long ago, the actual number buried somewhere amid the loops and spirals and corners of their Gordian knot of a timeline. But they keep moving, and they don’t think about it.
There are many loops to tidy up, tasks aplenty to keep them busy. They’re the responsible one, the adult who guides their younger self through their first bike ride, who arranges for car rentals and pays for their apartment and takes care of a dozen other things they didn’t even think to question when they encountered them the first time around.
They keep the plates spinning and the fires lit, arranging happy coincidences and keeping watch over carefree moments so that their younger selves can be free. They remember how important it will be, is, was. They remember thinking their future self always seemed busy, always on the move, always a few steps ahead of the curve. It’s all true, of course, but the truth is less glamorous than they thought it’d be.
There’s no time to waste, and as such there’s no time to slow down. When they’re in the past, their body doesn’t age. It doesn’t need food or sleep. It doesn’t heal, but injuries don’t get worse either. They learned these things as soon as they were old enough to need to know them.
At first, they were a little mad that their future self hadn’t told them sooner. Then they started catching up, and they realized exactly why they’d done it, why they’ll follow this continuity loop to its end.
They don’t need to sleep, but they still feel the exhaustion building up until it drops them. There’s no time for nightmares, but they never quite feel rested when they drag themself out again. Their younger self doesn’t need to know that, not until they’re caught up.
Not until the future becomes the present, and someday becomes now. Better to be carefree, and leave the work and the worry and the weariness for later.
They tuck the sheets of their childhood bed under the chin of their childhood self and try to remember who they’re doing this for.