How I wish I knew what I was. So often it's desirable to be one that lets go, but my subconscious teaches me time and time again that it's not the case. "Look how vivid your memories are, let's relive a moment, a feeling, a thought! You're feeling it again because you want to, you must crave it when you're suppressing it in your waking hours, and you've grown fond of this boiling lake of acid because it is extreme and you're so insensitive otherwise."
How much meat have I eaten without harming a fly? This disconnect is stale, I yearn for blood and see so clearly that I have no honor. My current path is following something paved and designed and calculated and like a pretend-exciting journey. Like waiting in line for a theme park ride with fake skeletons and chests fills with fake golden coins and fake prison bars and previously recorded screams and fake stone and real dust. Married by a judge, gave birth in a hospital, vaccinated, divorced by a judge, too capable to risk much, cynical, but still with an undying belief in love.
Just within the past week the corners of my mouth point so far down. There is weight to the air and I'm conserving energy for battle. What am I supposed to be?
