A laughable matter, how hours seem to change you. Not change you fully, at least not in the way a metamorphosis occurs.
It changes the signs of irritation, the raising alarm and mostly it adds a deep longing.
A familiar feeling weighing down each breath.
It feels like a numb explosion. Like there is more to it, but it never peaks.
It taunts with promises of relief, but leaves you boneless. Instinctively you mark it as an unsatisfying end.
Could be labeled pessimism or rationalization.
You hope for more, you always do.
Maybe it's the stop of the turning clock, the one that resounds heavily each night.
The disappointment will dissipate eventually, but it feels like centuries until it does.
The memories that keep flashing are like salt; the familiar sting of the shame from fresh wounds.
The wind you always carry with you, it drifts you off to foolish daydreams. It helps hold back the inevitable shame and guilt.
Soon you understand, this is all erratic. It must lead to an origin, but it is one you cannot find.
You realize the attachment to this coldness is horrifying. You never plan to be cold, it just catches fire.
Time takes its toll. It takes away the chance of ever amending; of retribution.
The obstacles are clearly organized to hinder much needed evolution.