A homebrewed cup of coffee is the only thing partially breathing & cosy around here. It's black with honey, an enviable consistency to a person with all the bitterness devoid of the sweet. This existence is beginning to turn to shit, it's obvious. My being is something unfamiliar: clumsy, forgetful, even with the most uncomplicated of tasks. The few steps from kitchen to adjacent living room become apparently difficult, forgetting I've an overflowing cup in my hand. Slow, careful steps would've been logical but logic rushed out seven storey high windows six days ago & left me with a trail of wet.
A long distance from whetting my interests: persons--physically & electronically. Supposedly I was done with masochism, but pleasing discomfort has been found in silence. A mutedness bred from utter lassitude, for which I apologize on my depression's behalf. Present priorities include spending quality time assembling useful things I ordered on the internet, reversing the accumulation of dust, seeking out a film that can hold my full attention till the end credits, resurrecting my blog along with my living quarters, & lastly, my life.
I never drink my coffee black. My reclusion stopped me from buying milk.
I battle my thoughts I find I can't explain/
I've traveled so far but somehow feel the same/
I'm worn, tired of my mind/
I'm worn out, thinking of why/
I'm always so unsure/
I can escape time through sleep. Forced, deprived, day, night, days on end, an end to days.
No comments:
Post a Comment