Everything is always falling apart, and what else can you do but try all that you can to keep from feeling like you're melting away into nothing, until nothing is left to break? I haven't a heart left to break, and there are no more expectations left for me to fail to fulfill. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe I'm just selfish. Maybe I've given up on trying to save myself, and I'm left with nothing but the feeble desire to save everyone else, and I am equipped with nothing but the innate, desperate awareness that I am incapable of doing so--- crouched beside me like a sickly shadow, taunting me, and taunting me, and taunting me. Because I choose to sink. I choose my own fate. I am self-centered and yet I feel the pain of others so much more than my own dull wounds. My empathy is as great as my loathing, my self-loathing. And yet I still choose to shy away from progress. After all is said, my pretty words mean nothing. They fall apart just like everything else, and disappear. A constant state of destruction, of self-destruction. Maybe the only change I desire is tearing myself to pieces, and maybe that's good enough for now. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All I know are the different ways I will rip myself apart, and for some reason this fact brings me great contentment. It's sick. It's just sick. Change is happiness. Change is despair. It all depends on which way you want to look at it. I'm trapped in a beehive, but all I recognize is the buzzing. It sounds like music. It feels like poetry. It stings. It stings, but I can't stop dancing. Or maybe I simply refuse to, until the bruises swallow me alive. I won't stop dancing until the bruises swallow me alive. I could finally live.
I could finally breathe.
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