Time Traveler's Lament
On these jagged, ancient rocks, a prehistoric tableau sprawls out. Pteranodons wheel above, their shadows flickering over the shore, while I stand alone, marooned in a time that refuses to claim me.
The wind, a biting whisper, salty and relentless against my wetsuit, slips into my bones. Beside me, a Stegosaurus, its plated back a silent testament, offers no solace, only a stark reminder of my misfit existence.
I've wandered these timeless paths, among creatures that shouldn’t know me, their eyes glinting with curiosity that edges into indifference, reflecting the isolation that binds my soul.
It seems the world has decided: I am best left alone, a misplaced wanderer, standing firm on rocks that jut into a sea that swallows my cries with indifference.
In the distance, the sky bleeds into the somber hush of dusk, where pterosaurs vanish like dreams slipping away, and I, a solitary figure in black, a mark of modernity against this ancient backdrop, feel the deep, abiding sting of never being enough, never quite cool enough to belong.
The ache is a constant companion, a yearning for community, for a partner, always just out of reach. Each face turns away, each heart remains closed, as if I’m perpetually falling short of some unspoken measure.
Here, in my dreams, amidst these stony sentinels and ancient beings, I carve my solitude into the rock face of time, each breath a silent scream, a testament to the time traveler’s plea for connection, for recognition, for someone to see me, to call me their own, in a world that seems to never want me as I am.












