Sunrays cut through the darkness of night like silver blades, illuminating the fleeting, ephemeral beauty of things. Awakening me to the absurd awareness of the world’s terrifying objectivity.
I am too tired to think, too tired to feel. My feet rise mechanically all through this senseless orbit that feels so infinite along with the swelling malaise that has grown fond of the warmth in my womb. This reality is a chronic disease. I am simply sick of everything that subsists around me that has become apart of me in some intimate way that defies analysis.
Perhaps I am, at this very moment, within the inner recesses of a dream being dreamt by me, in another reality. Two realities divided by just a thin sheet of paper at the back of my insomnia.
I awaken with a nostalgic after taste of something buried under the absurd depths of my memory.
I am too tired to think, too tired to feel. My feet rise mechanically all through this senseless orbit that feels so infinite along with the swelling malaise that has grown fond of the warmth in my womb. This reality is a chronic disease. I am simply sick of everything that subsists around me that has become apart of me in some intimate way that defies analysis.
Perhaps I am, at this very moment, within the inner recesses of a dream being dreamt by me, in another reality. Two realities divided by just a thin sheet of paper at the back of my insomnia.
I awaken with a nostalgic after taste of something buried under the absurd depths of my memory.
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