It's exhausting being us. Half-lidded eyes that reflect the darkness between stars, impedimented acceptance of where you are in life. Our adventures are painful pursuits to locate authenticity in a filtered world that seems ugly every other day.
We move through life like a slow exhale of smoke, hurt gathering inside our chests lasting for months and years. This bitterness, it burns. But we don't stop because watching ourselves bleed is just another form of living.
Life can be so full that it almost bursts, or it can be depleted as a vacuum ******* your epiphanies and inspiration out of your body until you explode in self-doubt. You and I, we don't have time for false apologies at the rate of our inconsequential breathing. We are not red-flags in our own eyes, we are just impatient for self love to finally have a meaning.