summer is just a concept yet, everything i know is already melting Into something that resembles a wax like mold that’s made of a collection of my doubts
have i crossed the line ? or am i wrapping it around my neck subconsciously?
for i feel it tightening with certainty that could only hold the weight of my existential dread; if i built it on delusions
this isn’t an interrogation, but an act of rebellion.. a crisis Masquerading as romanticism and decay
And I seem to be losing more and more of myself to those with every day
that passes as “my twenties”
I walk and walk Aimlessly, Blindly dragging one foot in front of the other
Hoping to find purpose to define my existence
only to settle for trivial validation and numbness
that I pay for by letting fatigue like necrosis feast on my raw nerve endings sitting up a pathway for anxiety
And i wonder if it’ll ever come to an end… Or will i ?
Will i embrace paranoia and let melancholy embrace me ?
for how long will i be able to romanticize this catatonic state of consciousness ?
with what will i pay when it consumes my youth ?
And where does the sliding scale of my self destruction measure ends;
if not at the base of my ego induced highness
Where do i end ? Because lately..
I’m all beginnings and potential that i forgot how to digest
•Quotes: Sylvia Plath/ Virginia Woolf/ Franz Kafka/ Franz Kafka/ Sylvia Plath/ Clarice Lispector/
•Original content: Sinligh
1. Body of Christ Piece by Jess Cochrane. 2. "Deliverance" by Robin Isely. 3. "Vanitas” by Roberto Ferri
