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I’m a few days behind, my bad. It’s been one of those weekends where time doesn’t exist and the next thing you know, it’s Monday.
I type out a forward slash para to activate the paragraph block in WordPress, only to realize that today is Monday though I was supposed to submit this for Saturday. The weekend. Forty-eight hours. The length of time that we’ve outgrown, the days determined by our ancestors as fair when kids were a viable source of labor in factories. The writing challenge doesn’t end because we’re allotted 40 hours to do the damn thing Mondays through Fridays. Time has no meaning when your heart is so low, it could dig itself to mainland China. Through the loam and chunky bits of dirt to feather by the molten core that powers the gravitational pull of life on Earth, waiting to emerge on the other side of this sick, sad world. A world that becomes much smaller when you realize you’re a meat sack of hormonal confusion and stomach cramps and chunks of uterine lining come gushing out from between your legs, but you’re horny and it’s too messy and the atoms in your skin demand the release of a power that may sate your appetite.
All you can do is glow.
Level up your day with an often-imitated, never duplicated aural transmission from Raconteuse Radio!
This tiny — but mighty — podcast celebrates the oral delivery of the written word. My goal is to showcase and chat with emerging & established writers at all stages of their careers and probe the minds of unshakable industry folks to show us how to become published poets and authors.
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