Anaisa Castillo, The Scroll, Staff Writer

I think I’m running out of time. Not the time that determines whether you reside in an unconscious escape, or the kind that forces you to bask while you toil. Nor the time that displays itself as a digital numeric. These numerics represent nothing more but a significance of endless despair. Numbers of which conceal utter gloom to those who will never understand, but numbers of which reveal utter gloom to those who do. To those who can see beyond these unpretentious units and acquire the burning truth. By this, I mean each number marks a fault that I—or we—fail to mend. It gets quite confusing for me when these kinds of things remind me of cassettes or videos…recordings…I think it’s because these types or things never fail to display the utmost truth. They expose truths that were once concealed and enveloped under the surface of truth. But what if numbers and recordings themselves are full of lies? They can’t be…they shouldn’t. Because if they did, we’d have revolved around lies. So I continue to believe I’m running out of time. Soon, I’ll be devoured by my despairs; soon I’ll be corrupted by my anger, and soon I’ll become dismantled by my very own cassette of cognition. I don’t think you understand yet, do you? These unpretentious units hold order and hierarchy of my faults. From one to ten, I’m reminded of each mishap that shatters me. From each video that contains my false presence, I’m reminded that I need to secure my true identity before my obtrusive cogitation strips me dull. I’m reminded that each digit, that each video withholds mental time that counts my existence short. And if I fail to uphold stimulation, if I fail to acquire my true character, I’d only hope the witnesses prosper to portray me as an example for failure of recomposition.