Hope

 Do you know what I feel right now? Absolute fucking paralysis.

All this reading, and writing, and editing, and proofing, and knitting, and painting, and drinking, and smoking, and dancing, and laughing, and watching, and listening, and talking, and walking is for what? To pass a moment? to pass a day until the next one comes and goes, and the next one and the next one and the next one and I don't feel no difference. If there is, it is so significant-ly-small. 

All this accumulates to what?

All this leaves me with what?

Every time I look into this sad sack of shit I carry around, I see nothing but a few crumbs to barely move into the next one and the next one and the next one. Every day, I exchange this handful of crumbs for another handful again and again. 

How the fuck did I end up here?

A chain of little things leading me here and leaving me here with nothing to fill me. It never fills me enough to be worth carrying forward.

I feel paralyzed, dying of hope. All this and I go on breathing for a hope, because of a hope.

Is it worth it?

This unknown, far-away hope thing, is it worth it?


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