The cursor waits for the words to pour out of my fingers. Does it think of them as its own? Or is just a stupid servant waiting for an opportunity to serve the master? Am I the master? Do I dare to call myself that? Or am I deluding myself into believing that the words are mine; that they are conceived in my brain? What if this is all just a dream? What if I am the cursor? What does that say about the hands that I am serving? For all I know, I could be a fictional character and a real person could actually be reading about me.
Now the real question: Does it really matter? Who cares?!
I am shedding the decay creeping on my soul.
What I want is
The adrenaline declaration of my existence.
To laugh so loud it sounds (and feels) like agony.
To put myself in the unknown and see what returns.
And then I will think about visions
Every footstep that I take seems to crumble the ground beneath me. My footing wavers. I sway and there is nothing to which I can hold on to.
Every breath that I take reminds me that the air I breathe is poisonous. It chokes me and blurs my vision.
Every heartbeat is a warning that it cannot go on much longer.
Every night my empty bed rubs my loneliness to my face.
I crawl on this wide world without balance, without breath, without love towards my death that is somewhere out there.
Whitman was right.
Someone has “stopped somewhere waiting” for me.