Editing my thoughts;
A spoonful of porridge in one hand,
a pen in the other

My two main forms of sustenance;
One for the body,
The other the mind

A bite turns into a meal,
A written word into an expression of 'soul'.
The primordial biological urge is constant

Without the food I would not have the strength to pick up the pen;
Without the pen I would have no desire to eat.
Their unison might be the only thing keeping me in motion

Long may it go on.

The heart beats;
The blood circulates;
The cells receive their required oxygen;
The breathing is sharp and rushed;
The shaking hands and fingers fumble with the packaging,
Nearly spilling the invaluable contents;
The arm is wrapped with a belt to cause the veins to rise,
and await the needle;
The parlous thoughts and feelings of discomfort begin to dissipate
as the lighter heats the spoon.

The skin pulsates and the muscles ripple under the point of the needle;
The natural reflexes of the body try to pull away from the pain;
The prefrontal cortex allows the will to keep the arm steady
and the determination to continue pressing;
The skin breaks and the needle slides into the vein
As the thumb plunges the plunger.

A warm, rushing sensation travels up the arm;
The mouth curls into a smile,
the eyes crinkling at the edges;
With a sigh of relief the needle is pulled from the vein;
The syringe drops to the stained carpet below;
A hot trickle of blood runs from the crook of the arm;
All the muscles relax,
sofa and body now one.

A wave of euphoria sweeps the body
and the mind;
The voice of God reverberates around the room,
revealing the secret to eternal life
and the meaning of everything.

The heart stops beating.

One day, I will leave this world.
The energy that pumps through me will dissipate;
The body I know will begin to rot and decay;
The thoughts and emotions I feel now,
with great urgency and severity,
gone.

The people I love will put me in the ground,
to cover the stench of my rotting corpse;
They will visit 'me' once a year with obligatory tears in their eyes.
They will auction off all of my personal belongings,
All the things I cherished and valued;
To look upon them will be 'too much'.

Slowly I will fade from their memories:
My personality;
My laugh;
My smile;
The way I held my face when I was concentrating really hard.
All the little things that make me me, forgotten;
Like I never existed at all.

In their loneliest moments, perhaps, they will remember me.
Not the real me, of course;
Just my name attached to a sort of vague concept of death,
An idea of what it is to no longer exist;
My memory will serve to give them a sense of their own mortality;
An occasionally present reminder that they too, one day, will die.

I sit scouring the internet
looking for some easy stimulation;
distraction more than anything

I sit alone,
a special kind of silence looming over me;
it would be petrifying if it wasn't so common

a pulsating energy bubbles inside me,
trapped, with no escape;
it just vibrates there, relentlessly

there is an itch in a cavern of my mind;
buried deep down and hidden away,
under piles of forgotten memories and unfulfilled dreams

sleep feels like a myth;
some old story told to cold scared children
to distract them from the horrors of our world

all four walls appear to be closing in;
the faces of the ones I love slowly disappearing from memory;
I am becoming someone else,
something else

it'll pass
it always does

until then I scour

The sky is right there
It takes almost no effort
Behold its beauty

There is so much to say,
So much to see;
So much that sometimes everything
becomes overwhelming.

Language becomes cumbersome
and redundant;
Eating laborious and emetic;
Around family and friends you feel
out of place and superfluous,
Almost gagging on anxiety if
conversation floats your way;
Unfiltered thoughts overcrowd your mind,
thieving every ounce of your concentration;
Darkness fills your soul,
and it aches with every breath.

But then, one day,
after perhaps many difficult ones;
The sun rises and shines through the window
with the iridescence that only the sun can;
The birds sing their sweet sweet song,
inviting your ear drums to beat in alignment with all living things;
You find a pen in your hand again,
scribbling and scrawling your now interpretable thoughts;
Your shoulders, which were stooped, are now straight and
you stand tall in the stiff breeze, dreaming of possibilities.

Your alliance rekindled
with this enigmatic thing
called life.