The more years that pass, the closer I get to your age, the more I understand. As I live, I question how no one else loses it. At times, it feels more insane to find peace here. Your madness, justified. Their stable minds, mad. The price of life rising with every quarter.
Left alone at sea, desperate against the uncaring waves, these uncaring people, that push me under for a moment more above. With each intake of water that I get used to in my lunges, I am submerged again. More water then air, and I worry there is little room left.
I’m left to question if my only path forward is to abandon this. Get away from this never-ending cycle. My legs and lungs are too tired to:
Work – Pay To Live – Sleep – Go Mad
Maybe it’s genetic—something I have no control over—but I want to consider all the variables. I’d rather stay sane alone than go mad here. Turned to the deep below.
Away from it, maybe I could write happier stories.