When did it come to this? The shallow breaths, the hollowness,
hatred spilling over, nothing but sad disjointed parts of everything that makes
you alive. Scared of the darkness, uneasiness, new strangers. For there indeed
is something like accustomed-to strangers.
If people were to judge my English, this would be a good time to
sit back on your sofa and laugh so hard that the neighbor's dog wakes up. Dogs
can catch sounds better than us. Ofcourse you knew that. Unless you're dumber
than me. Which you are. Hey, brain! Stop! This isn't supposed to push you over
the edge into the world where you sit high on the throne, throne hanging by the
edge over some cliff, one push and you lose two things, your bones and it.
No let's get back to the moping business. It attracts more of its
kind, we have relentless guilt, suffering over regrets, and more. Don't ask me
to type all that out too.
Do you talk in your sleep? How would you know if you're alone in bed, in the house ? Who would watch you while you sleep? Who would watch over you as you fight tiring battles in your dreams? Who would give you a nudge and say shut the fuck up and let me sleep?
Tiny beings, we all are. The one writing this out, included. Yay, the haters are happy. Somebody is.
How do you know it doesn't get darker now? What if the lights were never meant to be switched on the next day? What if you were meant to stay here, as long as it might be before the darkness took you away to another place?
Sinking in, isn't it? Sinking in, aren't you? Tired and helpless and cold. So cold.
Somebody cover you
up with a blanket,i wish. Somebody and something other than this strangeness.
