seeing through unseeing eyes.
Saturdays: For idling, catching up on sleep, bits of sports, and all time vegging.
But silly old me cant stop asking myself "so what's next?" Why can't I just take "Nothing!" for an answer? I dragged out stuff to do... and eventually came up with a list. Must I always do something to feel accomplished/ complete? I think I am lazy, and a professional procrastinator, so it cannot be that I am a workaholic....
So what am I? ... I don't know!
The blind professing to see, to describe the skies, through unseeing eyes. The malaise of discontent, the rage of restlessness, the stupor of melancholia drugs my days, lay chains to my steps. Much is hollowed... sigh... I just feel like filling up the gape holes with stuff to do, issues to think, frens to meet, things to buy... hollowness unstopped.
I feel alone in a crowd, adrift in the harbour, unsure of certainty, doubtful of self, in denial of truth. I think I whine too much. Yet, I can only expell words like steam from a vent... I cannot calm the inner flames that tears at my mind's walls. How long more before the collapse? Will it be a collapse?
I have not recovered. I am still wounded. It seems oh-so-superficial, yet it nags like an old one, weeps like a fresh one, and aches like an ugly one. The scabs have formed over it, yet I could still feel the tug of pain with every movement. Was chided that I should not whine about such pains, for everyone experience such many times in life. Yet, I had prided myself as one who takes care of himself... and I had been wounded thus... the mental wound seemed more unforgiveable. The relapse made me a creature of the night, for plagued by memories I cannot sleep. The relapse made me a sluggard, for my bow cease to attract, and my body as wasted as my mind. I hope for it to pass soon, and never to return, yet it is like asking for the clouds to come or stay... beyond my control. Just beyond my control.
But silly old me cant stop asking myself "so what's next?" Why can't I just take "Nothing!" for an answer? I dragged out stuff to do... and eventually came up with a list. Must I always do something to feel accomplished/ complete? I think I am lazy, and a professional procrastinator, so it cannot be that I am a workaholic....
So what am I? ... I don't know!
The blind professing to see, to describe the skies, through unseeing eyes. The malaise of discontent, the rage of restlessness, the stupor of melancholia drugs my days, lay chains to my steps. Much is hollowed... sigh... I just feel like filling up the gape holes with stuff to do, issues to think, frens to meet, things to buy... hollowness unstopped.
I feel alone in a crowd, adrift in the harbour, unsure of certainty, doubtful of self, in denial of truth. I think I whine too much. Yet, I can only expell words like steam from a vent... I cannot calm the inner flames that tears at my mind's walls. How long more before the collapse? Will it be a collapse?
I have not recovered. I am still wounded. It seems oh-so-superficial, yet it nags like an old one, weeps like a fresh one, and aches like an ugly one. The scabs have formed over it, yet I could still feel the tug of pain with every movement. Was chided that I should not whine about such pains, for everyone experience such many times in life. Yet, I had prided myself as one who takes care of himself... and I had been wounded thus... the mental wound seemed more unforgiveable. The relapse made me a creature of the night, for plagued by memories I cannot sleep. The relapse made me a sluggard, for my bow cease to attract, and my body as wasted as my mind. I hope for it to pass soon, and never to return, yet it is like asking for the clouds to come or stay... beyond my control. Just beyond my control.
posted by Zachary Shim | 5:21 pm
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