Capsule Vivian Jin ‘21
I have never been encapsulated, never known the comfort of being dashed— into powder and hyphenated, described nor had all my vertices circumscribed never been poured into a plastic embrace, never been floored and tamed by a pretty face, never kept up a rhyme scheme nor expectation nor facade for too long without changing. I have trembled on the brink of a lip, been drowned by someone who wished to wash me into the past, hoping the memory would go down easier if I were compacted by the Wednesday garbage truck. I have not yet been copied and cloned, rattled in a translucent orange vessel, prescribed to the yawning mouth of late stage capitalism, packaged as a “hard worker” with “good leadership skills” nor labeled formally... not yet. I have never died before. I don’t know what it would feel like to be buried in the ground for exactly a century, forgotten until the date when my progeny uncover me, uncap, unscrew my container, and marvel at the ancient treasures unsullied by time inside.
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