Aching, constricting, agonizing. My chest throbs. What to do. An ancient belligerence rises in my throat. I am close to snapping, taking everything down with one swift gnash of my teeth. Yes, give them a piece of your mind. Suppress it, they would lash back. Perhaps not with equal intentions, though similar wounds. Your wrath is not for them. I want to run. For miles. The heaviness in my chest lifted by the burning of my lungs and the battering of my heart. Riding my bike barefoot comes to mind. The traction spikes on the pedals drilling into my feet, flying over potholes. Calloused hands clamping into the brakes and complimented by the sound of tires scraping against asphalt. This is a sound I have drawn from the neighbor's dog running out in front of me, requiring a sudden stop. Yes, good. Lethargic. Eat. Sit around with my eyes glazed from hours of residing in the dark on your computer. Your stomach is full and it hurts like no fresh hell. Amount to nothing. No, this is not what you want for yourself! Get up! Very well. Then what am I? An author? Surely that restrains you from living comfortably. It's a so-so chance of success. J.K. Rowling wrote a franchise with mediocre plot and ambiguous style. My great grandfather has a hobby of diligently assembled craft, worthy of uproar. Art is something that everyone lusts after, appreciated online and in galleries. It is nice, but not for me. That was a waste of time. I could tell my friends; they've been significantly unresponsive all summer. Either I talk too much or they're really busy–perhaps both. They hear a majority of my problems, though I am reluctant to share with others. Who are you to complain about your problems, when people have it much worse? Who are you to burden others? Who are you?
Aching, constricting, agonizing.
gonna log off for a bit guys.
