(no subject)
There are some days where I feel as though I hold such a firm grasp on my life that my knuckles are turning white with it. There are others where I watch everything fall through my hands as though these events were no more than a liquid or fine powder. These last few days have been the latter, and even though it has not been in a bad way, my fingers have begun to grow anxious in their wait for a stronger grasp, and I find myself wishing for things to cease flowing through me so quickly, and slow themselves to allow for some sort of residue.