I'M DEAD
State of the Union 🇺🇸
I’ve been battling with subject matters and metaphors for the past day or so, as i’ve been eager to post a mausoleum quality Substack;
I was looking at subject titles such as ‘how not to surf’ and ‘progressive dissonance’
Subtitles like “stay prone’ and ‘regressive discipline”
Truth is - I’m dead. There’s no more of a direct way of addressing the matters.
My daze is infinite,ly disrupting my person. I can’t corroborate, much less exonerate. The man in the mirror. He’s the shell/fish, not the dinner plate.
If I was alive, I’d have a grain of confidence, a dash of love, optimism, & warmth.
But since I’m dead, I have none. The cold is present and the sheets are wet. Not from/sexytime. Just tears and red whines.
When you look at the numbness that is dormant inside, maybe I have been dead for a much longer time. Complicit acts of inconsideration, breaking hearts and minds, ruining friendships like they’re worth $5,99. I’d trade all my sense for a couple like minds. Seems like Helen had a great life, even better than mind.
It’s only right that now is my time. A knife in the back has been sharpening for much too long, swiftly buy my own hand, I try and prevent the stabbing of self. But it’s not for sale. You can’t buy hands of time, it’s the drain of sand that will take away minds.
As many times as you kill me, I still have some pride, and maybe that/s what’s disguised to keep my heart beat upright. No matter how dead I want to be, I could never take action against my own me. I could never act intentionally and inconsiderately with life, no matter how much sand I get pounded by.
Maybe it’s the feeling of all the things I desire being 200 million miles away, maybe it’s the broken clock reminding me that I passed my time, over to the next of kin, in the form of a post mortem document.
Will; my life amount to all I believe it can or will I fall victim to the quickness of sand?
Fin. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
