These are juvenile ponderings.

The sun has bled in through tiny slits of plastic and dried up all evidence of midnight longing. I can breathe again, and thus am left to my own devices and my own internal thought. It’s morning, and the mourning has lifted, you have gone away for the day and the air is so much thinner. I suppose you’ll return in hour’s time, but for now, I can be me without you.

Listening to the brewing of the coffee pot, gargling and bubbling up adrenaline to lengthen my day that much more, I am draining. I’ve shed too much skin to jump start new chapters and awaiting trains. I’ve run parallel to the passenger beast and have only stopped to watch it trail off without me. There were no seats that could hold such restlessness and boredom, I know this. These are juvenile ponderings.

That same T.V. remains mute. So many other noises around me to cover such bleakness, but it’s all nonsense and irrelevant. It’s knowing that the end is so much closer than the events leading up to it and everything starts to lose its meaning. It’s dedication to a novel that when the ending chapter comes you lengthen the amount of time it takes to finish. It’s tripping at the finish line and it’s parting ways with an addiction. It’s whatever you see fit at the time it fits. It’s things that couldn’t and shouldn’t be; it’s me and it’s you.

I’m not going to lie, oh most precious of readers. I’m terrified to pick up the pencil, to pull out the paper and see what such clutter forms. I’d rather just distance myself from such crude and smite-ridden thoughts, all of these distasteful neuron explosions. It’s nothing but a burden and a blessing to inject such meaning into lyric and books and writings. But the coffee awakes a giant and the silence ushers in the crowds and all we have is shattered glass and remnants of populace never to be admired.

Hell, we cannot remove these robots from our skins and the mechanics of this now machine-infested universe we now only lust. Every action, reaction, every lie foretold, it’s all the same, and just as easily mapped to our gears and levers and pulleys and shell and hydraulic pumps that keep us breathing and beating and seeing fog and thermal passerbys . Happenings happen and it is cyclical madness to not conform to the brutality of the wheel and invention and robotic efficiency.

It was under a tree when I found out that my company was only my doubt, and the leaves began to fall. My faithlessness killed the growths of the tree and everything came down in full force, decaying, dead, rotting, and everything you could expect. What was I to do but let it all come down on top of me, leave me no room to breathe, until finally I am covered, smothered, and my little robotic quiet heart pumps one last time until it…..