Its hard to claim the breathe that is gifted to these lungs.
Difficult to boast about the idea of owned space.
Yet it is seen.
Time and time again.
Personal.
Space.
As if everyone has forgotten.
The probability which led to ones own realization.
How easily the consciousness could have never came to be.
Its just shunned away to the darkest corner.
Not even allowed space in the brain.
The here and now tales precedence over what will never be.
And to an extent it is justified.
For no one should live by what ifs.
But.
To claim ownership of the air that all existence shares.
Well.
Who am I to chastise.
There are too many ways to describe pretentious.
And somehow this mind tires endlessly with the maze of its undoing.
Sentences repeat and rearrange themselves.
Until rubbing tired eyes no longer sooths the minds eye.
Waste.
Waste.
waste.
May there come and day.
That the later takes hold.
Then maybe exhaling wont feel so.
Unsatisfying.