Stagnation. A disease. A fucking disease. It envelopes your soul, if you have a soul, and rots you from the inside out. Perhaps the outside in. Because there is always that tiny bit inside that seems to stay alive, no matter what I do or where I go. I've tried to silence it more than once. I've tried to pretend it didn't matter, but that little piece refused to go under. I hated it, but I was thankful. I'm still alive because of that little piece.
But now I begin to rot.
There is always something else, always some dream, one dream, that I want to own completely. And sometimes I pull it close, I can taste it. Other times, it slips away quietly, like a cat off your lap as you fall asleep, and the only thing you notice is the sudden absence of warmth and comfort.
I woke up. My lap is frozen.
The sun is gone today. It is dark, so dark. Yet the birds still sing. They should be silent. I love days like today. They make me pensive and all I want to do is to walk outside in the grass barefoot and happy.
Odd things make me happy.
Sometimes you're happiest when you're ready to die.