Everyday feels like the longest day of the year.

Everyday feels like the longest day of the year. Am doing too much and not doing enough either.
Schedules changes. Priorities deviate and promises remain broken. But still am holding on, trying to make good on my word. Is why am sleeping two hours a day, staying up all night listening to the world around me slip further into the abyss I can’t touch because I’m too restless to sleep and too tires to do anything else.

My world feels too big, now that its drawn out– I feel it close in like a stalker; slowly, as if conscious of my unconscious awareness of it. It closes in stealthily at first then steadily like an infinite ocean leaking through a narrow hole.

And life becomes something unlivable, a song whistled in passing. the images I see seem more churning than acute images. The sounds jarred up a tighter note–
Everything, the trees, the traffic, the sex, the birds, all of it seems caught up in a bottomless swirl.

Here in this place, time gets stuck, nothing seems real, the abyss you’re made of is only an abyss because every loat wanderer should’ve one.
It says nothing, this abyss, it just dances slowly around me & the rhythm it waltzes to is the sound of my endless sighing.

Then the abyss breaks loose and lets loose the ghosts, the faceless demons within your little impressionable hell. And these ghosts are caged, just where they want to be. They laugh at your efforts to break them free, they seem to recognize that the access or your deadly universe is the stasis they need to preserve, they recognize that all your struggle will only produce a physical cadaver of threshed deeds. They call on to you, singing the abandon of your formless timeless faith in yourself.

They say it’d be easier if I just chose non-existence. Their idea isn’t exactly paradise, but it isn’t the purgatory I’m in, either.

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