one or two. That’s the anxiety. I can’t break away
from what I’m supposed to do—trouble is—
what I’m making up as purpose is really myself
in comparison to you, you all. That’s depression.
I’ll never reach that: the collective you.
Especially with the Internet, you perfect posers, you
craftsmen and women. And I’m drenched in it.
Soaking wet—it makes me shiver. And at the same time:
the unknown—the cosmos. Anything and everything
could happen, but it could be nothing, but that could
be the point. This is when I know infinity
is forever—What am I supposed to do with a thought like that?
So now you see—mental illness is crippling.
But are you so far away, Hoverer? Floater. Wading closer.
You can sense it. There it is, again. Keep playing by
your rules.
No comments:
Post a Comment