8 hours condenses itself into a blink of an eye
8 hours condenses itself into the fate of your survival
8 hours condenses itself into a game of pretend-to-be-dead
8 hours condenses itself into a game of I-want-to-be-dead
8 hours condenses itself into
8 hours multiplies itself into a thousand lifetimes
in which you live an alternate reality,
in which you live a spectrum of emotions,
in which you live 80 happy days from that which eats you up,
from you who eat yourself up
8 hours in which you live.
Its funny how when you wake up every morning,
you are re-enacting your death that you have grown so numb to.
You are the ghost of your past living in the present.
I’m sorry 8 hours came to an end
What’s funnier is that you go to bed at night making the same wish.
Your tongue, already too familiar with the roof of your mouth,
the insides of your cheeks, and the structure of your teeth.
Your prayer is meaningless because those 8 hours count themselves down,
impatient to play the same prank on you.
You wake up to die again.
Perhaps God doesn’t listen to those who are dead when they’re alive, and alive when they’re dead.
Perhaps God is dead.
But I know during those 8 hours you are awake with your eyes closed,
alert but unconscious, alive but not living.
I know that you’re most afraid of opening your eyes
and finding you still lie in the four walls of your casket.
I know this because I am the body in which you reside.
So tomorrow, when it’s time for us to wake up
I’ll leave you asleep.
By: Phel Kaur, Kuala Lumpur.