As if things, as if everything�s just a hurdle to the next failure. The next pain. The next period of loss, agony, misery. Like there was some agreement out there to perpetuate your singularity.
Sometimes breathing becomes such a chore that you wish you weren�t.
And in a search for justification, in contemplating why you even bother, the sum total of your life becomes an ever-growing catalog of disappointment.
How many times can I put on the face and pretend I�m okay? How many times can I suck it up and move on before what I am is outweighed by what I�ve left behind?
How many times can I lose things I care about, and how many times can I lose the only things that care about me?
The sunlight�s fading and winter seems ever longer each time it comes.
It�s like I�m this little weed, struggling to grow, but just wishing for a big lawn mower to make it all easier.
