ANA CARMONA

12TH GRADE

cosechas lo que siembras

time is not a tool but a gift.

time is precious yet underappreciated,
time is flaunted as if it can be bought
time is universal, realistic, abrupt, yet abused.
and lately time is what i am starting to feel like i am running out of.

time has always meant a word for me
it has always felt distant and darkling
stuck in the past,
anxious for the future yet numb for the present.
and isn't it ironic that in the moment
where everyone's time seems to feel like it's on pause,
time is rushing, slipping, ticking,
as it escapes my fingers, the most it ever has. 

i want more than ever to catch up with it
ask it to slow down,
give me a break,
freeze it all despite the extremities of heartbreak and sorrow.

i want more than to ask it to let me stay a little longer,
the type of longer that will feel like an eternity. 

clock strikes 8am.
the time in my world
can be accounted for by the memories
in a one bedroom apartment
and the impatience that grew
with the 5 people living inside. 

clock strikes 10am
it is the hope that roots in my existence,
the hope that nuestra morenita has granted me,
i have worn her on my neck since i was born. 
i am protected,
reminded of the kindness
my heart is capable of across the multiverse.

clock strikes 12pm.
it is my mother's soft hands caressing mine, 
Serenity, the ones that are safe unlike no other,
i hope one day i can show her the peculiar wonders of the world
that which she has sacrificed to show me, if time allows.

clock strikes 2pm
It is the old photographs, flashbacks and billion of possibilities 
attempting to vanish into thin air,
haziness dawns on me.
i preserve every pinnacle memory of my timeline

clock strikes 6pm
evening, It is the party of 6 at the dinner table.
despite one being missing, an empty chair marks the spot. 
everyone rushes to pitch in,
traditions are the most treasured of all. 

clock strikes 8pm
it is the pain of every lost soul in these wicked streets,
the ones that were taken too soon,
but can be felt guarding our avenues at dusk.

clock strikes 2am,
it is the locals blasting reggaeton,
they’re the same ones that break into a fight,
police sirens ringing through my ears.

clock strikes 6am, 
it is the racket of the 4 train,
two blocks away yet it can be heard from my bedroom window.
disturbance in times of rest, but the core of these blocks

in my world, time would be captured in a capsule,
locked into the pavement, never to be grasped again.

i know once I'm gone, time can't be recaptured nor relived. 

so i ask time to remain still,
to not continue dragging me into an endless void of the unknown,
rather leave me to cherish every moment,
the place that i call home.

but that would be taking for granted the gift of time.

the truth it my home is forever chained
chained to the iron bars of my window sill.

time is infinite and doesn't stop for anyone
no matter how much i try to soothe the speed of time.

but THIS is raw,
THIS is infinite,
THIS is despite all the recklessness,
my sanctuary.

THIS will never change
even when time is passing by,
even when time is long gone,
even when time is out of my control, 
even when it can not be no longer be found.

within these pictures, the gift of time sits still.