My hand at writing seems to have gotten much weaker without the practice it needs. I feel I can’t start writing until I escape this rotten place, like everyday is too much the same to even bother recording. Another disappointment and another dollar spent, and I can’t help but ask myself if this is all there is to life? If everything I keep waiting for to finally make me happy, won’t even do so. It’s my worst fear and though I constantly try to ignore it, it’s like it’s always there gnawing at the back of my mind trying to breathe reality. Everything I have worked and waiting for gone to the wind. As if I use the happiness the future may bring to not be happy right now. Knowing it could be better, but what if it’s not? What if this is all there really is to life? What do I do when I get everything I want? What do I do when there is nothing left to wait for? I am so terrified.
Call my name from canyon borders.
Do you hear an echo for your voice?
Circling like vultures around my throat,
Every living thing will die alone.
How can you still feel alive, when everything good will wither, tarnish, and die?
