(no subject)
It always feels like the end of the world, but that end never comes. The days will keep drifting by, people driving their cars to work, doing what has to be done. The sun never tires, and the moon never leaves. I could watch the wind blow the branches of the trees outside my window for weeks, stay laying under my covers, watching the sky move past my one little rectangle window for years. These blankets, these covers, they are thick, and weigh down on me. This room, this little box of a room filled with the accouterments of past wants and the smell of smoke. The air is stale here. Nothing moves here, nothing but a quick rearrangement of limbs on this sinking bed. If you dig through the clothes, you'll find a diary. A diary filled with only fleeting thoughts that don't seem to make sense the very next hour. There comes a day when these warm blankets are no longer comforting but suffocating. When this mattress only puts knots in my back. When I can no longer close my eyes to the sun. When I can feel the draft seeping through the cracks in the door. When it is time to become of some use to somebody. When I must leave this dusty, worn out room and breathe the biting winter air. To not be a waste.