If all who breathe are not alive, then I’m probably dead.

Time is the speedy car passing by— too fast that it just disappears into the distance— and sometimes, when I’m too slow, I’m left behind with only soot and dusts to keep me company. My eyes grow weary and sore from chasing endless pavement. I resist keeping up with the race. Whatever is out there ahead of me is not mine. My thoughts wander on its own, turning the wheel a hundred eighty degrees: I’m re-tracing track that belongs to me.

I am the ghost that haunts my past.


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