Life is a million little deaths,
I'm not sure how many I have left.
Lonely nights I've wept and dreamt for reprieve. God has one too many tricks up his sleeve. Talking doesn't ease the pain, it only distributes it across multiple planes of emotion. How do I feel? The better question is, "How does one survive being stranded in the ocean? You hope and pray; That is the way. Place your faith in the thought, "Some other day it will be ok." Don't mind me I'm dying- a bird flying against the wind, never moving, unable to win. Writing is a practice in futility now. I ramble on about the same problems. A fly crashing into Windows, unable to solve them. A million deaths before we get to live. We take a million breaths before we learn to give. I could create universes with this nib, but instead I ***** and complain about my circumstances.
How does one stop?