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Time has always moved funny.
Too fast and too slow, puckering in, in all directions at once.
I think this is an autism thing, and a bipolar thing, and a PTSD thing. I think this is a “I cannot exist in spacetime if I do not exist” thing. I think this is a “always in the moment before death” thing. I think this is an “attentional issues” thing.
Time has more mothholes when I’m crazy.
Feeling like time is some weird mobius strip made out of a melted mirror makes it hard for me to put together a coherent life story.
Time stretches out and snaps in like a slinky. Time does that thing middle aged people talk about, where a week is gone in the flap of a wing. Sometimes I am restless for this to happen. My goal is survival, so life is an eating contest of days:
how many can I fit in my mouth at once?