Oh, this existence. So many mirrors, so much paperwork. The years of straining through the fog. The faraway song of a sheltering dove. We sleep and wake and sleep again, letting each day carry us to bed. Every hour pressed and folded. Every moment clucked at, then tucked away. Always the mind over matter, as if we ever knew anything else. Always the clouded corners of perception fading out of sight.
Such a sorry pantomime. Such a bitter charade. Clots and pains and aches and madness. Head pointed at the dusty ground as hail melts on my bare feet. The rain so fitful, the mood so dire. Every day a little further from the dream. Every day a little nearer some bloody end. Nothing but tears and murder. A few tall and stalwart trees, a handful of pretty birds. A spider climbs my leg for shelter, seemingly startled that I am alive.
Two more midnights now. The television telling jokes, then laughing at them. I type another notice of suicidal ideation, my dull biography a litany of cursing and complaint. The television talking in another room, taking care of itself. I know when I'm not needed. Just look at the clock on the wall. I know when I am not wanted, lost in my own rattled moods. I keep saying this can't last. I keep feeling the same.
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