It is strange, to realize how alone I have allowed myself to become. I enjoy, revel in it, in some ways. And it enables me to write, to have time to write. A recluse. But what sort of recluse? Am I just another 20-something no life outside of wow parent's basement guy? Well... technically, yes. God, that's depressing.
Gazelle Instensity. Have to get out of here. Yet it is a cacoon, warm and safe and easy. I'm tired, yes, and not even hungry. Let the world rot. I can see it from here, and there's noting in it worth joining. I'll escape soon enough, just not yet, because I'm tired. And with the words 'not yet,' the tar pit of the soul sucks down the unwary.
The rocks in time compress your flesh to coal, your blood to oil; enrich the soil. Not every body's goal.
Why? Because I am able. That is enough.
1 comments:
*hugs*
You are only as alone as you choose to be.
Where are you escaping to? You sound trapped. I think also that maybe you do not see all there really is in the world. Come out of your cocoon, it isn't easy, even butterflies have to fight to get out. Don't believe the feelings that tell you you can't.
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