December 15, 2008

Sullen reactionary meets distress.
Distress palpitates well under regret.
Regret swears of independence,
But independence promised always falls through.

***

It is now too cold here to smoke in chains, as the howling wind cuts through layers of synthetics like knives. Even the wool stands no chance of defense, for last nights’ rain has frozen to all surfaces. Although the sky here is quite clear, the sun offers absolutely no noticeable warmth. God damn this frigid distress!

Now is the time to stay indoors, recluse one’s self in a state of incubation. Loneliness may prevail in such a time as this, with all environments so bleak with despair. Spring will bring flowers and soaking warmth, but will i be prepared for the other circumstances thawed from frozen scenes?

I dream of surreal schemes early in the morning, trudging through hazy memories and future possibilities. Three hours is all i have every single day-after-day to digest such visions of potential decay. Shall i let winter retain this state, or should i consider breaking such habits to defeat dismay?

Memory fades as each week sets in, and at times lessons learned retain their former potency. While it seems upsetting at times, life offers little in return for now.

Beauty is found around many common corners, but resides in unreachable confines–The monotony of the every week-day nine-to-five. So where are the soothing depths of other souls?

Of course, self-respect is hard to come by in this tedious torture culture.

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