This echoed migration of thought,
nightly, through my mind belies a sort’ve contempt for the lauded progression I so heartily cling to.
Knowing this, I turn a blind eye to the abject suffering the repeated offence causes.
I shrug off another night spent whiling away nothing and assert that the ritual is necessary.
I know, of course, that this is a lie.
But when it is the lie which propagates that same self-assured sense of potential for eventual change;
It is perhaps not wrong to suggest that the lie has become reason.
For better or worse, I do not know, nor will I likely ever know for certain.
But still, the pondering of endless, pointless why’s marches on and carries me away to it’s heavy rhythm.
Dutifully I write along to this rhythm, and in doing so,
I begin to call myself a poet, the word itself a form of hiding.
A deterrent for progress.
I turn inward to feelings I now call artful, once harrowing, and I weep.
I understand that the change has indeed already come.
That those things I once sought to rid myself of have in fact changed.
They have become the crutch upon which I carry myself further into my own supposed wisdom; another lie.
Though not for anyone else, no, not another way to convince them that this is healing.
For myself. To swear again that this is comfortable, or right, or at least that it isn’t killing me.
But is it?
Is it okay? Is it killing me?
The thought shifts.
I lose it, just another echo tonight.
;

I wonder when it’ll rain again?