Some days it feels pointless. Like nothing I do will be of any significance. Like I have spent my slumber conversing with a suicidal vampire from a previous millennia assuring me with a tired grin more of the same. Continuing on in the torrential downpour of another day, I despise this slow decay, but find my eyelids sewn shut. I can see no path forward or back. The visions of others come to me from far away lands. Birthing new paracosms to hurt and be held in, I have let this life drift away. From my vantage point, growing flowers from my flesh, I am sedentary. I am utterly unreal. I am solitude.
It is not the lack of possibility. They all dance on the window sill, still. The capacity for love. To know and be known. The fact that I am capable of all these things taunts me. I know it could all be there if only I were to step into it. And still. I remain rotting with the flowers to bloom from my veins.