if i could move the hands of the clock, i'd move it to last year, last year with a crumb of lucidity and bouts of fatigue, perhaps better than this constant paranoia smudged with malaise.
for i'm tired of laying in bed for hours with eyes glued to pixelated screens, of writing bad verses and playing worse keys, of brewing fancy coffees and baking fancier cakes, of reading novels and exploring fiction worlds, of playing cards and singing silly songs with family, of clearing notifications reading deaths and agonies of a few thousands, because who cares about that when you're stuck at home, of the silent nights with no cars whizzing past or honking mercilessly, of having five inched screens capturing my friends' smiles, of surfing the net tirelessly to cure the disease called boredom.
for i'm tired. tired of this privilege that lets me stay within safe walls, when the world outside crumbles to dust, burns to ash.
