One less rant to worry about.
The way passing judgment grants you superiority. The way the inevitable comes to pass. Of setting and rising, living and dying of the sun, the moon, and the heavens. The way you'll never know. The way you'll never think to ask. All in the lives and the minds of others. And what I say is "so be it."
I think that about does it. I aim to not be bothered, to not be "disturbed" or "sad" but there is no helping such things. Circumstance, one way or another, will be my undoing. Truly, what does it really matter when the depth of one's soul approaches naught but malcontent? What then is the point? I say I believe, but, it's a lie. I am lost. You lost me, and the like. I want to say I haven't much to let go of. I say, but, I don't feel, therein, I don't mean. Wished less, wished more.
Wondering what exactly takes me to this point, the pounding in my chest, no... I try and not think deeper than my species on the issue: only revisiting, and again, that I'm not that different from a rabbit, or a fungus. Do I not more than serve to transport and further the existence of my microscopic masters? Didn't show the slightest bit of interest, no, I wasn't about to seem it. Self starved of love, nor consumed by it. No one knew what happened to me, less one. Blind to the serious, at their total expense, after all that I existed, visited by melancholy and doing exactly what I despise.
No, missile salvos, laser, such, wondering what happened. Wanderer of paths. My left is amiss, left, just family. Feel like parting with death, similarly, light; potential is all I see, and I loath it. Future now, time ill spent, distance traveled there between ill spent, ill measured. "You will" seemed like a good place to start, but with that, left to me.
Certainly no luxury of a future tense here. Of judgment? Of release? Chaos.
I think that about does it. I aim to not be bothered, to not be "disturbed" or "sad" but there is no helping such things. Circumstance, one way or another, will be my undoing. Truly, what does it really matter when the depth of one's soul approaches naught but malcontent? What then is the point? I say I believe, but, it's a lie. I am lost. You lost me, and the like. I want to say I haven't much to let go of. I say, but, I don't feel, therein, I don't mean. Wished less, wished more.
Wondering what exactly takes me to this point, the pounding in my chest, no... I try and not think deeper than my species on the issue: only revisiting, and again, that I'm not that different from a rabbit, or a fungus. Do I not more than serve to transport and further the existence of my microscopic masters? Didn't show the slightest bit of interest, no, I wasn't about to seem it. Self starved of love, nor consumed by it. No one knew what happened to me, less one. Blind to the serious, at their total expense, after all that I existed, visited by melancholy and doing exactly what I despise.
No, missile salvos, laser, such, wondering what happened. Wanderer of paths. My left is amiss, left, just family. Feel like parting with death, similarly, light; potential is all I see, and I loath it. Future now, time ill spent, distance traveled there between ill spent, ill measured. "You will" seemed like a good place to start, but with that, left to me.
Certainly no luxury of a future tense here. Of judgment? Of release? Chaos.