secret 4#

I mourn the dozens of lives I could’ve had



There are days when I feel like my life has already ended

like I have already lived my life

up until the point

where I can hurt no more

feel no more

learn no more

I had reached a peak

and now there’s nothing to do but to fall

and just when I feel I couldn’t fall any deeper

I keep falling

midnight drabbles; scattered

I can’t do it anymore

my mind is blank

my eyes are tired

and I’m so so sad. 

so so so so so fucking sad 

all the motherfucking time 

and yet I find myself 

still dragging my feet

still pulling grins out of my teeth

still getting up 

waking up 

breaking up

into little pieces 

a gust of wind

and I’m scattered 

just another thought

I’d almost forgotten that feeling I once got after every film ending. 

after every heart-pounding climax and serene equilibrium and rolling credits, 

it had once left my skin a foul sort of sensation I couldn’t place, 

like a dread, a buzz of lingering adrenaline maybe? 

If such a sensation could be so foul. 

I’d forgotten, because I didn’t feel that anymore. 

Not until recently, 

and only now in my, not old, but older and wiser years, 

I come to understand it as the 

sensation of reality seeping back into my skin, 

after such a narrative, 

such a story, 

such a storm of emotions, 

comes a blank day, 

of no sun, no wind, no rain, 

just bleak reality. 

And though I am older now, I still cannot 

bring to terms if it was a sensation I very much


or if it was dread indeed, 

and in dread I buried a loathing for reality. 

Midnight drabbles; devotion

There’s a beautiful simplicity,
in falling so deeply,
into something,
a melody,
a narrative,
a person,
a sort of ecstasy,
where your perspective worsen,
and to the sleepless nights,
and the pitiless fights,
you suffocate on this simple devotion,
blindly drown yourself in an ocean,
whilst you’re still breathing,

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