“Girl With Bird’s Nest” by Sybille Sterk

It’s nothing. Some people call it the quarter-life crisis. You know, the sound of clocks, cicadas, chaos, all cluttering the space between your ears and the world. It’s the rising tide of maturity clashing against the unmarked beach of your childhood, the rake of an animal’s claws against your untouched canvas, the whisper of poison in your virgin ear. It’s the seductive, spontaneous, serpentine shadow of life and all it’s triumphs, trials, and temptations on your doorstep. It’s the sudden whirring of the clock’s gears that are suddenly audible—you could swear you’ve never heard them before. Or a sudden shawl upon your shoulders—a weight meant only for
Atlas, you always thought. It’s a fleeting thought, a revelation. And there, I’m over it now. I set the clock, resettle the shawl across my shoulders, and smile right back at you.

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