My existence sits heavily on my chest —
Pulling at me, strangling me, suffocating me.
I breathe in through my bones and ruminate at my rest,
All the machinations of the end that lie hollow upon my wake.
I can feel my skin stretching, creaking against my tendons
As I, not of this space, ponder my furtive passings.
Everything is heightened, intense, and shit, what does one have to do to cease this choking hold?
I call upon the ethers, the universe, and breathe.
That’s all I’m allowed to do —
Where my assurances lie.
I have nothing but this dream,
My dream,
This existence
As it sinks its claws in
And I die each time I wake,
Faced with another moment of the rising and settling of my chest.
I can make a playground of this.
I know.
But where’s the fun really, if you’re the only one fucking around?
existentialism
Nightlife
Time is as time was
Time will always be.
Glossing shadows
Coy smiles
Is that all that we could be?
Such fickle creatures, you and I
He, she, and we.
Bellow the cries of what lies behind
The standards and the truth.
As want is as want was
With innocence in between.
How do we change the stiff and the stoked
If there is no inbetween?
How do we revive all the desecrated graves
When our ancestors remain blind to their sins?
We are who we are —
An amalgamation of curiosity and pain.
Where there’s no longer hope in the cries of babes
Where there’s no longer hope in the cries of babes
And no true god to cleanse our sins.
We are who we were —
Burning through the night.
There’s no end to this
No end to us
We’re just setting fire to the night.
Some hoping
Some looking on in disgust.
Still, we are how we’ve always been
Trudging through the night.
Existential Crisis?
When it’s quiet, really quiet, I feel the echoes of my existence bleeding through my skin.
I try to stay still – no breathing, no thinking – just floating.
Maybe that will keep it at bay.
It usually does for a little while.
Not often though.
The heavy feeling of my breath, my heartbeat-
The fact that I am here in this moment (this space) is something that has always haunted me.
Does it haunt you too?
Do you want to pause your existence and not feel, not touch, not smell, not want…?
These moments are my torture – my masochistic thrill,
For, if I do not feel the weight of my existence, how do I know that i’m alive?
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