(no subject)
i feel like a plantation nigger, digging and digging ceaselessly, hoping to find something that i can cherish in the dirt that soils my body; something that will motivate me to keep digging, digging. the infected sores on my back plot a chart of hopelessness and utter despair. rather than sulk in pity, however, i have come to regard them as a part of my character. but this character no longer belongs to me. it has long been lost in the dirt that i keep digging, digging, under the command of some formidable, ominous presence that keeps breathing salt into my sores. i enjoy the sting though, it meshes quite elegantly with drops of death that litter my corpse. digging, digging, for something remarkable, something extraordinary, revolutionary. the question of its arrival brings me to mess with the dirt each day. but dreaming can only endure for a limited amount of time. and time gnaws at my sores, slowly bringing the deterioration of my skin, my aspiration, my optimism.
too soiled to dig, i sleep. because sleeping passes time that is otherwise unproductive or disparaging. so fly, fly all of you. i'd rather sleep. the stinging pounds too fervently. and god, does it hurt.
too soiled to dig, i sleep. because sleeping passes time that is otherwise unproductive or disparaging. so fly, fly all of you. i'd rather sleep. the stinging pounds too fervently. and god, does it hurt.