pandasloth

Everything is skipping, and I can't think straight. The world is spinning, and I am spinning, and the fluids in my head are whirling, and I think I'm going down. I'm boiling with calm rage, and coolly shivering, a nervous adrenaline fueled response to my guilt. I feel one with this joke, as it is in matter of fact my life that is gnawing and cruel, a kind of comedy that leaves you sobbing.

Fear not, this is only a child like tirade on the angst repressed from my youth, left to roil and feed until a kind of mass is achieved, to live amongst the deadened leaves, the dying grass, the decaying soil, and the feeding worms. There is nothing sad about this. This is just the way things are.

I am as I've made myself, and I am as the world has made me, and I take on this mantle with rapturous smugness, and joyous burden. My face is cracking, and the corners of my eyes are wrinkles, and the sounds of my back are the sounds of crushing leaves, and broken twigs. I'm so very very comfortable with my sadness. I'm so very warm and pleasant in it's presence.

Come in, sit, have some tea, and commiserate.
It's too cold outside to lay upon the ground with the bits and pieces of the past.
But truly...
I'm too afraid of what's to come, to face it alone.