The waves were churning in white moonlight. They broke unevenly upon the shore and receded. My body was there on dry land yet my dream was above or within the water, the chaos.
And I woke, my stomach churning, my will unable to rise upon the surface and face the day as a normal person does, as billions of people do every day. I slept for ten minutes, then five, until my spent exhaustion propelled me out of bed to stumble guiltily through my morning duties.
Tomorrow would be different, tomorrow I would live up to the ideal which I am killing slowly in my life.
It’s all worthless.
I write for others, for those who read this, and not for myself. I have filtered my existence to such a degree that I write my piece and admire it when others do. How would I even write something solely for me, for my peace, for my wisdom, for my future? For my kids? I’m dead already, aren’t I.
I write words and they cling together in molecular sentences. I compound my misery and in the course of a build up to several paragraphs, I must stop and leave the element as it is or risk destabilizing it all. And so I leave it here.