The drugs don't work. The airplane tickets don't work. The drinks don't work. I sat in a panorama window with nothing but endless sky ahead, nothing but endless possibility at the tips of my finger and felt nothing but heavy cinderblocks tied around my chest. Wherever you go, there you are, and here I thought this illness was just a fleck of dust I could brush off my shoulder. Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste.
A therapist tries to tell you that you approach each day in scarcity, that you scoop from a well of empty to fill your cup and wonder why your soul is dry. There was a time when I thought I deserved magic, but I don't know anymore. The report cards aren't adding up, I forgot to give the teacher an apple, I forgot my deals with the devil meant he takes his payment first and keeps you dangling for scraps of what you were promised.
The desert lies quiet outside the window. You can scream into it all you like, that is the blessing of the desert, it doesn't scream back. The desert has weathered the eons, it can wait you out and weather your bones too. Under the Milky Way, you are insignificant.
You plead with the devil to give you a little more time.
Begin to claw at the bottom of the well.
dig until you find a trickle.
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