Struggle. An uneven wheel on a scraggly road. Everything turns rusty if you leave it long enough in the cold. You see no new mice, even though the edge of your vision constantly teems with ghosts, scurrying around the edges of your floorboards. You say your, but none of this belongs to you. You own nothing, nothing but a storage unit on the 5th floor of a Brooklyn behemoth, holding as it does any remaining trickles of your life, of who you've been. You live forever in tatters, in ephemera, like you hold cotton candy in your hands and wash it in the stream.
It feels like a lot of waiting now, but it'll come together. You won't see the path until you've walked it.
The only way out is
through.
No comments:
Post a Comment