The hour of segregating movements, made in time, time of clasping hands and wiggling fingers, moving in malaise. When unbecoming of thy self-seems pertinent, the time where the self-transcendence seems to be paling away, hazing every thought & dissolving tranquility.
The static of life, disobliging, summoning that deep earthed notion to move, move far away, away from my own self, where quiet doesn’t seem mute & mute is the only answer I crave. A dormant self, might just sooth, as I crumble with every turn, as I tremble with fear of loss, that its apprehension is sometimes repleting in all the ways, to cause an unbearable agreement, an agreement to the sins and fib, whose aspersion lacks detail.
While the vents close, turning down my options, the essence of life losing color, when even grey looks black and white seems daunting. How do I ask? or should I? come out of this haunting? The step forward pulls me back, the constant pain emerging as should it, like walking on sharp gravel, invents a realization to hold with substance.
Each time my lungs expand with air, a shrapnel dislodges and lodges back again, reminding me that only this gushing air is subsistence that cannot be denied. I confront myself every hour, every hour passing with segregating movements, made in time & out of it.