The Passage of Time
It's becoming more and more difficult to breathe because of my actions and choices. Because of my disappointments my vices grow and constrict. It's been a long time since I've had the capacity to inhale a full breath and in the lower half of my left lung I feel a sensation best described as a kind of bubble. It's a cigarette, cigarette, light them off eachother, matchstick sigh, carcinogen enriched cycle, that I apparently just don't want to end. I got the news a few days ago, and I had been wheezing before, but now it's click-click-pop-click-click-pop. I have caught myself not inhaling. As if my body wants to give up. And I reward it with more abuse, because I am keeping a balance between my emotional and corporeal selves. And they both just get weaker. And doesn't it just go hand in hand? Isn't it obvious? So smugly dooming.
In a way, however, this is the only way I am getting hurt. This is the only truly negative comeback. It's dire, sure, but ultimately it is up to me to decide to let it be a prison or twist my head around and see that I'm free of troubles that I asked to be. So there. Lament, lament, but you are okay now. Cry and grind your teeth. Try to rip to empty sheets in flushed bursts of sorrow, but the only thing they are missing anymore is a burden, is a bag of sorrow. Tomorrow's the same day. Life on repeat. You're not going to a new place right now. You're not in the big city. You certainly aren't anywhere near Paris or Italy for Christ's sake. It's another somnolent week of opaque clouds and tranparent trees. But now you can be your project. Work. And by no means, just occupationally. Work. Strive. Vie. Do not be deterred.
It is slow but it does not relent.
In a way, however, this is the only way I am getting hurt. This is the only truly negative comeback. It's dire, sure, but ultimately it is up to me to decide to let it be a prison or twist my head around and see that I'm free of troubles that I asked to be. So there. Lament, lament, but you are okay now. Cry and grind your teeth. Try to rip to empty sheets in flushed bursts of sorrow, but the only thing they are missing anymore is a burden, is a bag of sorrow. Tomorrow's the same day. Life on repeat. You're not going to a new place right now. You're not in the big city. You certainly aren't anywhere near Paris or Italy for Christ's sake. It's another somnolent week of opaque clouds and tranparent trees. But now you can be your project. Work. And by no means, just occupationally. Work. Strive. Vie. Do not be deterred.
It is slow but it does not relent.