Aches begin the day. Uncomfortable and assured in the stinging pain they bring. This is how it always starts.
Looking out at a world unable to break through the blinds, guarded from, kept away from, protected from? There is so much to see that I’m unable to look at.
It’s a prison. The binds of life here. Stuck to the floor to always look up. No fluid way of drifting just rigid back and forth, pre ordained without acceptance. There’s no conspiracy, just the lacklustre truth of what we really are.
So when I wake up, and find myself apart from it all. I rejoice in the torment. For the torment is the point and to overcome it is the horror, the terror, the fear of what comes after. The nothing.
This melancholy will never lift, like mist descending on glue. It’s part of my eyes opening. A cataracts on my soul.
So I embrace it. Because it feels like a feeling should I imagine.