I find that when I’m writing, I am so coarse, and rough; violent and tempestuous, because I am so very bored and frustrated with the slow meandering stillness of my life, and my way of living.
Like standing on a needle, wishing and unwilling to move. I curse myself for such stony features which hold me to my spot,
but only curse.
Only ever holding myself in contempt, and not yet condemning. Knowing I am my own master and still not mastering myself.
It is the disconnection of my mind and heart, neither dominant, both struggling, both bored and both starving. When I am well and when I am in sorrow, I always save myself until tomorrow.
Never today -
these words that have wasted my life away.
Perhaps my happiness and my worry are all but illusions. Only a sign of my own confusion, upon seeing my inner, missing self.
Not even having a chance to regret, with how little I’ve done. No wishes, few fears, I am left floating and unmoored within a dark and starless sea of sky, carelessly peering down upon the world I wish I would covet.
I express myself through fire, blood and flesh, because I am buried in a cold, stagnant, rotting soul which I do not even myself possess.