So mindlessly stubborn
The earth, at this very moment, is spinning at a speed which is difficult to comprehend. Yet, isn't it odd how still you sit upon your chair? The only movement you experience being the wobbly twisting as you push away from the desk, only to pull back moments later--because your fingers hunger. They crave plastic and ridges and those beautiful symbols that sprawl across that glowing face like spilled blood.
You don't experience any vertigo; nothing at the moment. Perhaps you do in the cocoon of night, when your mind isn't your own, and you can weave across a sky of innumerable colors and watch as the flowers die--because you can, and it's natural, and it isn't strange that sometimes you feel yourself plummeting. Farther and deeper and longer than ever before, but you don't fight it because it's expected, really, and there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.
That fear only tears into your mind when you wake, but then the earth is still once more, and you are merely sitting on the sheets and crying tears that you can't begin to understand.
You are inconsequential, this much you know; your friends all support the conclusion. Oh, they don't know it, but they're all the proof you need. Each and every one of their [nonexistent] smiles, their diamond-bladed considerate words, their guilty pathetic so little it hurts offerings of company. But you like to be selfish and think that your existence means a little something; that you aren't just going to wind up as fertilizer for daffodils without a care like you suspect.
You tell yourself that you shouldn't be so sad that they have finally left like they were supposed to, but you're stubborn like that and refuse to listen.
The sunrise isn't as beautiful as you thought it would be, so you stay up again and again to watch it, hoping you will find that missing piece. That pretty piece of the puzzle that will complete the picture and reveal its true meaning, versus the implied message. But you have searched long and hard, in the folds of your flesh and the heat of your heart, and you still haven't been able to locate it--and you don't think anyone else would be willing to help, so you don't ask, because people are selfish and only look out for themselves, despite what they rationalize to their conscience.
You are a bug a pest a bore a drag insignificant worthless waste of space and air why don't you just go away already?
I would if only I weren't so stubborn.
You don't experience any vertigo; nothing at the moment. Perhaps you do in the cocoon of night, when your mind isn't your own, and you can weave across a sky of innumerable colors and watch as the flowers die--because you can, and it's natural, and it isn't strange that sometimes you feel yourself plummeting. Farther and deeper and longer than ever before, but you don't fight it because it's expected, really, and there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.
That fear only tears into your mind when you wake, but then the earth is still once more, and you are merely sitting on the sheets and crying tears that you can't begin to understand.
You are inconsequential, this much you know; your friends all support the conclusion. Oh, they don't know it, but they're all the proof you need. Each and every one of their [nonexistent] smiles, their diamond-bladed considerate words, their guilty pathetic so little it hurts offerings of company. But you like to be selfish and think that your existence means a little something; that you aren't just going to wind up as fertilizer for daffodils without a care like you suspect.
You tell yourself that you shouldn't be so sad that they have finally left like they were supposed to, but you're stubborn like that and refuse to listen.
The sunrise isn't as beautiful as you thought it would be, so you stay up again and again to watch it, hoping you will find that missing piece. That pretty piece of the puzzle that will complete the picture and reveal its true meaning, versus the implied message. But you have searched long and hard, in the folds of your flesh and the heat of your heart, and you still haven't been able to locate it--and you don't think anyone else would be willing to help, so you don't ask, because people are selfish and only look out for themselves, despite what they rationalize to their conscience.
You are a bug a pest a bore a drag insignificant worthless waste of space and air why don't you just go away already?
I would if only I weren't so stubborn.