Reminisced in syrupy spirits
Oak-aged in malt, turned viscous and slow
Like the neurons that are supposed to send happiness shooting through my brain.
Slow.. slow.. but oh so steady. Like watching a grandfather tick and on every tock the happiness fades away and age gathers with dust on old lineolium floors.

I'm a sucker for sleeping pills, herbal remedies (not real medicines though), malted barelys and strong hops. All things that make being a pile of concious earth easier to deal with. All things that take me one day closer to being a lump of unconcious earth, scored in a fire and reduced to ashes.

Sometimes the notion of godliness and of an everlasting holy Spirit floods over me and I'm transcended into the wind. Then reality. The one of many I'm stuck in, ***** me back in like a black hole. A black hole, void of feeling plagued with death, politics, corruption, greed, war, poverty, racism, brutality. A reality where my fingers type on a phone screen and where I actually think I say things and where I actually think I make love only to realize none of its real. I'm not godly nor transcended. I'm a useless lump of earth bound to descend into unconcious sleep forever.