I can feel myself shrinking in this dressing gown.
As every day goes by,
as every hour
after hour
after hour
ticks by,
I feel myself getting smaller.
I'm rotting away.
I'm the living dead.
A corpse in pyjamas and a pair of slippers.
Where's the crazy life I see in films,
the whirlwind teenage happenings?
Stuck inside the constant buzz of my television set.
Yet am I really wasting my time,
am I really decomposing,
if I'm spending these ever passing hours
writing these?
Reading,
writing,
learning,
and dare I say,
growing?
But how can somebody shrinking be growing?
Maybe I'll be found one day,
just a dressing gown, a skeleton and a handful of flowers where my brain should be.
I'd be happy with that.