It’s there and always will be there. The question remains: are we living or are we dying?
We are living to die. Yet dying to live...
I don’t understand the concept of living
We’re being kept as livestock anyway
Just some free cash for the government
I feel the same way. I think there are far too many of us here. But maybe that is not a bad thing.
Is it silly to say I’m crying?
not at all...
I would like to know that feeling. But I suppose I will once it comes. My grandfather died a few months ago, and I never really felt anything. I didn’t know him. He was in a sense already dead to me as morbid as that sounds. It hurts me to think that he was never... I don’t know, a “true” grandfather to me? Should I have felt sad? I never cried. I did not know what to feel because I never felt him in my roots. Some things like this make me question what life and death really mean.
It’s moments like these when you have nothing else to do but start peeling yourself apart in search of the love you once meant to give away. At the last moment I had snatched it back, greedily swallowing the key, feeling the scrape down the sides of a tired esophagus as it sank lazily through all the words that have ever been caught on the tip of my tongue. Mutant regret, conveniently stored equally between brain and heart, just in case either one gets the bright idea of actually being brave. Orphan words pulling me back into the disoriented 17-year old boy who knows nothing of giving things away, really. And now I can keep swallowing the refuse until the regret reaches my gut and rots me from the inside or I can throw it all up at your feet and hope that you can love the mess of me more than the shadow. Please, piece together the sentences that have been gags for so long, and you will realize that the words have always been there, But your fingertips know more truth than the longest novel.