Peering though hidey holes

Sometimes all I see are people living lives I should have, could have. Achieving the feats I mean to. Especially those working in journalism and writing for a living, or studying. Concrete aims that once felt tangible, yet over years that stone has been bashed down into rubble eventually just dust. I am left mourning a shadow, a ghosted existence. My reality is so stale, like hardened bread.

Oh, this wretched, flailing thing. It won’t leave me despite how much I try so hard to ignore it and take a stand. But my resolve is riddled with bullet marks. Rain water drips through and I become flooded, engulfed, unable to see through the clammy air and from vacant eyes bleeding smudged mascara.

I hate it. But how much is now a part of me? Ironically I welcomed it as a way to soothe my own stinging self-loathing, and yet now it is what I despise the most of what I am, what I have become.

It was all a dirty trick. I colluded with witchery, yet with complete obliviousness.

Peering through the hidey holes from this cardboard box, looking at the stars. I can’t stand the sunlight, but twilight moonshine casts a shower of promise. It’s meaningful when you are constantly surrounded by black within black within black.

I won’t fade out. Not just yet. I have more to do, more to type. Words are tumbling out again, and it’s been so long. It feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. It feels good. Even if just rambled musings, it’s worthwhile to me.


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