How very wrong, sometimes, the things that feel so right. As the dark deepens and the air stills, emotions stir easy and the mind runs amok.
I am often stunned by the importance of the sun- this blunt truth brought to light (haha) with the aging night.
Familiar sights are lost in the pale yellow street lights, and I turn to relying on my memory to find the way. Rights become lefts, and the way forward seems to take me into another realm.
A thin veil of moist covers the night, mixing with the sweat on my brow as panic seeps into an ill-convinced mind. There is no secret in fear, like how there is no way out once you trespass.
But you power on, forced by the urgency to escape and the insecurity of retracing what you never were sure of in the first place.
And what do you find?
We all have different ways of saying it, but we all know what it feels like - a dull ache in the chest; an uneasy clench of your diaphragm; the cold, choking cough that lingers after the warm drink.
You're addicted, you want more because there wasn't enough to begin with. That's why you're here in the first place - a feverish desire to indulge yourself in the very essence that you know is wrong and unforgiving, living off little victories from the faintest grip on your lost imagination.
And you tell yourself to end it, but yet here you are, throwing out words to complete strangers who will judge you without knowing you at all; in this mist of careless revelations, there can be only one benefit - that I came out and said that I can think of nothing but.
I am often stunned by the importance of the sun- this blunt truth brought to light (haha) with the aging night.
Familiar sights are lost in the pale yellow street lights, and I turn to relying on my memory to find the way. Rights become lefts, and the way forward seems to take me into another realm.
A thin veil of moist covers the night, mixing with the sweat on my brow as panic seeps into an ill-convinced mind. There is no secret in fear, like how there is no way out once you trespass.
But you power on, forced by the urgency to escape and the insecurity of retracing what you never were sure of in the first place.
And what do you find?
We all have different ways of saying it, but we all know what it feels like - a dull ache in the chest; an uneasy clench of your diaphragm; the cold, choking cough that lingers after the warm drink.
You're addicted, you want more because there wasn't enough to begin with. That's why you're here in the first place - a feverish desire to indulge yourself in the very essence that you know is wrong and unforgiving, living off little victories from the faintest grip on your lost imagination.
And you tell yourself to end it, but yet here you are, throwing out words to complete strangers who will judge you without knowing you at all; in this mist of careless revelations, there can be only one benefit - that I came out and said that I can think of nothing but.
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