I guess I couldn’t stand the Kata tonic, or I was just stuck. Staring at the foreground of my life, asking why the background rolls a loaded dice. Or a loaded gun, since if I wanted to wake up, it would be the first time in this stretch of my life.

I tell myself I can’t go on and then there is the next breath, turning to an aimless appeal in search of relief, but I’m answered in quietude, a remark that speaks louder than most. It’s an inveterate scourge, that I’ve adopted, but I can’t nurse this lack of a life.

Catalysed in the witnessing but paralysed in the next iteration, the long-familiar radio stations loops on repeat, beating its signal into me. I left across the board, battened the hatches and prepared the shelter, for hell or the weather. The storm is coming, so they tell me, once more.

Pulled back, like cocking a pistol, or pricking a finger on a thistle. I cannot wait for the whistle, of the starting gun. I’m smarting but I’m in anguish over the arduous trudge, through a darkened swamp. The quicksand is the martyrs land; I cannot part the waves, but I can shape the sand.

I am too considerate to contemplate the end, I think about the lives of others and what they portend, like I’m Clarence now, looking down above. The town is bustling but the crown is dulled, as she doesn’t fit, I guess the head’s too big. If a man could knock her down to the size, the tiara sits.

I’m languishing in a stupor, and the stupid is fruitful, for at least I see how human abuse is uncommonly useful. Left out in the cold, with my debit card blocked, where is the fraud felt deepest, in the wallet or heart, well if I ever learn, I’ll move past all the burns. Tear my way through the earth and sit back on my perch.

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