...And I reached out, like the hands of a clock, uselessly grasping at time; and like a clock, all I could do was tell of it's passing.

And I knew in that moment, you were to me as the moon to the wolf: infinite in beauty, but impossibly far. And for this I cry.

Words poured forth from your mouth and I struggled to catch them in my hand,

but alas! They slipped through my fingers like so many grains of sand.

I don't feel like myself. Now that is a contradiction in itself, for who I am is different than who I was and who I was is different from before.
I was
am and
will be
constantly changing, so who is to say that me not feeling like myself now is not just me becoming who I will be next? What should be said is I don't feel like who I want to be.
Because this transformation was an unwanted arrival. I never asked to be put into this chrysalis. Even now I am shouting from the inside for someone to let me out.
This is not what I wanted.
This is not what I want.
This is not what I will ever want.

I don’t want to be this new me.

I am barely surviving on a thread of superficial interest and the minute that expires I feel like I will too. And the list of my interests is getting shorter and shorter.
The stories
I once liked,
The sites
I once browsed,
The drawings
I once admired,

All slowly

f a d i n g  


f  r  o  m  



t  h  e  



n   a   r   r   o   w  




s    c    o    p    e  




o     f  





m      y  




m       i       n       d       .           .                .                   .

I find myself lingering more and more in the emptiness and because of this I awake in the chaos of a misplaced life. I am constantly forced to build an empire from the ruins of my mind, but the bricks never align the same each time.

                       I am
not doing
                          well. I’m
     not
                                 doing well
          at all.

I am concerned that I am growing more and more comfortable with my bouts of apathy. Things are easy to deal with when you don’t feel anything, when you don’t care. The problem is only when you come out of it and start feeling again. That’s you see the effects of your apathy:

The disappointment,
                  The concern,
                           The anger...
                                  Much like falling,
                                          It isn’t the falling
                                                That worries me,
                                                        It is the sudden stop.

In a sense I haven't breathed in a long time. I haven't given any gasp of pleasure or a sigh of relief. Air is ******* within me like a Gordian Knot. Too long have my ribs served as a cage for the trapped air within me. The wind in my breath the very symbol of freedom and my restraining it a resemblance to my claustrophobic thoughts.

I want to melt into the winds of a storm and surrender to the release it would give me. I wish to be as carefree as the breeze and to carry on across the world like a zephyr. I want so much to take example of those drafts and follow a course all of my own.
           I am a pocket of air beneath the water's surface.
                          I am a balloon anchored to the ground.
                                              I am not free to do as I will.
                                                           ­           I am trapped.
                                                        ­                I am caught.
But I will wait for the time I am able to breathe again.

There are echoes in my bones that shake me to the core, but all I have to offer is the whisper from my lips.

From my lips, the sound that escapes me the silent cry of a million aggrieved souls.

From my lips, the sound earth shattering in its own right, but unheard by all.

From my lips, the remnants of the shouts cast into the mountains of my mind.