I could count a room of fingers and it would not be enough to match the risks I’ve taken to get where I am. My silence froths at the mouth with a wish for a reward. They say such blessings arrive sooner or later, but I find myself waiting for my next appointment to good news.
I am somehow never called in to reap what I’ve sow. It’s effort demanded but never compensated. The price I call my worth is never paid for nor reciprocated. You could say it’s everything but complicated, but I’m certain this yearning has meaning that needs finding.
No, this is nowhere near matters of love nor money. The situation is purely of metaphors — chambers of words sealed and unspoken, benevolence waiting for patrons — to which I have overused in hopes of coming to a convincing understanding.
What else is in store? I have been prescribed wake-up calls from an unknown source. This waiting line has taken a toll on my willingness to comply. It’s a case of “something’s wrong with me" without any confirmation. I cannot self-diagnose this trouble without any affirmation. How much must I pay for a divine consultation?
The Lord has long abandoned my spirit — unintentionally, yet with a familiar purposefulness.
I leave my sit for a moment, and come back to this hazy standstill. These people have no faces, let alone any recognizable expression. They all line up perfectly, down to height and hand position. Of course, this is definitely something to question.
Time seems to have stopped in a vacuum made for me. There was no telltale sign of a wormhole the caught me red-handed. It’s as if life threw me in, shut it tight, and acts like nothing happened. I yell louder and louder, hoping that even an echo replies to me. Alas, the air is thinner than a strand of hair. I tear apart what I wear, laying bare shamelessly on the cold sheets of ice.
Some call it the seventh hell. I would concur, except isolation can feel like paradise.
It scares how I have failed to distinguish seconds from years. A nightmare turned reality has been ruminating in my fears. This catatonia has entered unwelcome. I was unfettered when I knew what wasn’t yet to come.
Blood in my veins rapidly boil into lava. A sorrowful reprise hinges on my ability to smile, and I am playing my part all too well. The unmoving world around me cascades henceforth the lessons of stillness.
It is sultry, unpleasant, and unbearable.
It was easy to hypnotize myself into thinking there really was a way out. My prescriptions start becoming addictions, as I intake these calls by the pound. It scares me that one day I will always be lost and forgotten, simply never found.
Recently, the line has gotten shorter. The light at the end of the tunnel is enough to sate my hunger. Change comes with an inevitable power, for which I’m certain it is valuable in its splendor.
But such childish thoughts become pipe dreams that drown deeply in me. I am soon to receive a refill, just so I can take care of my peculiar needs. It weighs down on high hopes for a better way of living, and yet I find myself enduring a fight I am bound to lose.
Such meandering has led me astray into a place I did not choose, of which is my wrongdoing.