The bursts of energy behind your retina begin to feel like the last sputtering efforts of a gas tank on empty, a lighter down to its last drops of fluid, wanting so much but collapsing before both feet have really left the starting blocks. It's a grueling roller coaster ride, an act of sitting on the giant's chest as it breathes heaving breaths in and out. You soar in the air, only to compress under the weight of your own gravity at the bottom.
You are determined not to give in to the g forces as they play with you.
Thumbing through pages (upon pages) of previous years' words, you find patterns too astute to be ignored. Your words are better in despair, simple thoughts emerging like poetry from your melancholy fingertips. In peacetime they arrive at the door like newspapers, like bar food menus. You cannot force the melody, only sit back on the ride and wait for gravity to press the words from your lips.
I am tired, now.
I will not always be.
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