I’ll keep pretending that life is a continual work in progress.
Like the wounds I’ve accumulated won’t one day catch up to me.
It’s the paradox of non-existence—the unknowable space outside of endings, before beginnings.
But in the middle of those, what is left there for me?
I'm not cut out for these forty-hour weeks.
This "real world" has no place for me.
I've watched life pass me by, watched my health steadily decline.
I don't remember the last time that I felt all right.
So I close my eyes while on the highway just to feel alive.
Now I know my home is not the same, so I’ll leave to find new places, break the paradigm of pointless days.
I’m tired of the cold, and I’m tired of waiting for a miracle.
Awake with the fire of farewells, I’m setting out to make my mark. It will be small, but it will be mine.
No truth nor meaning will fall into my lap. I will make it for myself.
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