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Wachinagi

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Bronze Poet

pretend

I never know what time it is

I never know what time it is
5 (100%) 1 vote

I have no thoughts to express, no feelings to explain, but despite this lack of motivation, my hands insist there is something to say.  I guess I’ll see what’s on their mind:

It seems as though my internal clock is running fast, or perhaps not set correctly.

When I am awake, the world sleeps.  I sleep when they, the world, wakes.  They scurry about like rodents  looking for the crumbs from my dreams.  They feed on my passions, they gorge themselves on my waste.  I wake to find them fat and slow, and I run fleet footed around their bloated forms; almost corpses.  They are so much slower than I am, and they are competing in a crowd of likewise stagnant people.  How they ever hope to become more than this, I can’t imagine.

Then why do I always feel like I am somehow failing?  That somehow they are so much better off than I?

It seems like such a simple thing, to stop running, to feast on garbage, to take and take, give nothing in return.  To horde and scrounge and drool and embrace selfishness.  If I could just do this, I could be as happy as they seem to be.

Pretending

I have to hold to the idea that they are not happy.  That they, just like me, are just very good at pretending.  That deep inside they are as alone as I am, as constantly sad, and perhaps just as disgusted with themselves.  As long as I can believe this, I can see that it is better to remain fast, free and alone.  As long as I can believe this, I can remain myself.  Someday though, perhaps someday soon, I think I might just give in, give up, and quit running.  If I allow myself a closer look, I’ll see there really is no difference between myself and them.

That’s the thought breaks my heart today.





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