Between the daily rituals of observation that never seem to override our persistent thoughts, exists our undeniable desire to breathe more than just oxygen.
We are suffocating under a spell of routine, yet we’re still not blue enough to realize that the hopelessness inhibiting us from awakening is not just
Conditions curable with just enough encapsulated tablets just to lead us back down the time capsule to the day we failed to recognize anything further than “Me, me, me.”
Mirage, it’s all a mirage of self consumption where we tap, tap, tap our way to greatness and numbers and “wait, I gotta post this on snapchat.”
Help, I’m having an asthma attack. Can’t seem to inhale enough false affirmations to make me secure enough to stop with the spasms.
So dead inside that I once visited myself at the grave where I keep all the memories that I experienced without a finger on the record button.
The yard where buried are relationships that could have been mended had I lifted my neck up enough to see past my-self-ishness
to next to me
where I would
“Hi, my name is love….you’ve been searching for me.”
—-One life, that’s all we have. To breathe into our lungs the true meaning of our lives—-