I can feel it. Ticking, Counting down the seconds, Minutes, hours, Days, weeks, Years, decades Of the minor insignificant preamble to death that is my life. I am responsible for this bomb. I built the entire thing myself. I let them fool me. I let them play with my mind, As if it were a ball being carelessly kicked and tossed Through a field of lies and victimization. I am the victim of my own bomb. The only one strapped to it. Trying day after day to escape its fatal clutch, Yet clinging to it with dear life. I need the bomb. It gives me hope. Hope that this will all be over. Hope that none of this really matters, That life is nothing but a preparation for death. I hate the bomb. It creates fear in me. Fear that I am but a minor proton in the body of the world. Fear that I am the target of all of humanityβs evil. It makes me forget why I am here, Why I keep going on every day. I forget about my bomb squad. I forget about all the things diffusing my bomb. I forget to seize the day And decrease the weight of other peopleβs bombs.