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impossiblydecadenttimemachine · 1 year ago

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Honey, Can You Hear Me?

My eyelids sit like boulders trap them, hanging low and sleepy, dragging themselves open and closed again for just enough moisture to carry on in the light of wakeful life. I am indeed aware of my own drama, and yet I wonder, is it? Drama I mean, or a close reading of the kinks and clinks that rattle inside of me. I am obsessed with my own suffering, only because it throws itself at my windshield like constant little pebbles dinging the only glass I have to see through. Light smoke ruffles out of my ends like exhaust. Categorizing my exhaustion in that of amorphous swirls, rising, dispersing, transferring me from one place to another, when all a part of me wants to do is sleep. Cold, long, and hard. And to then awaken renewed. In two years’ time where I want to be is alive, only if I can do so without the sticky tiredness of my body trying to keep itself alive, above the line, and in due time. Is it a life, where my feet are dragging behind me and the world is nothing but a blur? One and then another and another and another. I suppose it is, but quite a sad one, at least from inside of these eyes. But why? Why? What a silly question that takes too much of my time. Go on, get on with it. Living, I mean. You know what I’m talking about. What the hell are my fingers wrapped so tightly around that they forget to breathe and I, in turn, forget and keep on forgetting to live? i am so tired, my love. And maybe my legs are lazy to carry on trapsing this earth without you. If I’m living, where are you?

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impossiblydecadenttimemachine · 2 years ago

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