Fill these hours with what we claim to be segmented days. Stuffed with arrangements, responsibilities, we define a means as a reason. Yet in desolate isolate solitary 'Will' is unquenched even ill, parched & starved of purpose and enrichment. It's an anorexic craving, 'Desires' stomach physically grundling & 'Living' a drought of sustenance. The paradox is crippling, as muscles labouring off coal combustion. Yes you're in motion, but in the cast iron belly of your hearts engine is souly cremations. We move because we mimic the earths movement thoughts still beneath our feet. The sun cycles as do we; work, eat, sleep, repeat. The reason: a paycheck, a means to match ends meet. Though the week full & my stomach gorged; at the start of the next dawning circuit 'Meaning' is emaciated.
Are we alive to be an accountant of a fabricated system: Time.
YOU ARE READING
The things I think of when I'm alone
PoetryUnbearable pain that is expressed and acknowledged becomes bearable. But people who have suffered from BPD received no such responses in their childhood. Therefore, they are stuck in the past, trying to elicit what they needed as a child-validation...
