crawling- on hands and knees as i fight my way back to you entangled in a web of memories dragging myself through the dead and debry amongst mummified thoughts and emotions; now stagnant, yet petrifying none-the-less. i'm not sure how much more of this i can endure with each passing day i lose a little bit more of my strength and stamina; faith, courage
Why am I doing this to myself? There's a fine line between idealism and fantasy. If only the former weren't so exhausting.