I walked out to the ocean, out to the place where the firmament meets the sand. The overcast sky slouched overhead like an unwelcome obligation. The crisp air was punching needles into my ruddy face as I thought about life and I pondered death. There were so many roads that led to this point, so many quiet evenings in serene dominion. The water brushed up against my tired shoes as I thought up a typhoon about how it all crumbled to pieces. The tiny ripples looked so welcoming.
I broke a promise that I made five years ago. Since the alarm went off, I’ve been sleeping in a wormhole in our bed. Time itself has turned into a burden of city stone. And I am going to pay the price for the rest of my mournful days. Fifty days and fifty nights in seclusion cannot unroot the paramount depletion of harmony. The breaking point is tearing up my mind. The uncertainty is devouring my will to keep pacing along this beach.
Maybe it’s time to dive? Joy and desire have dwindled down to this. Without symmetry, the struggle just seems like too much to bear.
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