Sometimes you think about Atlas.
to have to carry the world on your shoulders.
You don't think you could do that.
Not physically, that's not what you mean,
to think anyone could literally carry a planet is silly
borderline delusional.
But apart from that,
you still don't think you could do it.
A little voice in the back of your head
A little voice that sounds both like slime
and like the prettiest girl you know,
it knows you couldn't take the weight of the world.
And it would take care to tell you.
You love how with
the hands in your mouth you feel like
you could just reach all the way down into your stomach
and pull the food out, just like that,.
But this endevor never works
so you just try to eat as little as possible.
It's not a disorder, because you eat,
you do. You really do eat.
Just not much.
There are moments where you feel
like you've managed to bruise your muscles.
Not the bone ,the muscle.
Pain, running over random bits
and pieces of you like shooting stars.
And sometimes your veins feel like they've
decided to take the day off, go to a party in Rio
and leave your blood cells to flounder under your skin
all by themselves.
And sometimes you feels like your
blood itself has turned to sludge,
creeping and mushing throughout your body,
moving at the speed of a troll or a ogre,
barely squeezing through your person,
turning you to stone.
You're tired all the time.
Christ, are you tired.
You can sleep for four hours and feel
the same as if you slept thirteen,
because you're never totally asleep, anyway.
Always right on the shore, but never touching the water.
People try to talk to you, and
70% of the time you can respond,
but sometimes it feels like the words in
your throat are stuck,
like the walls of your mouth is superglue
and you're tongue is a cage,
trapping everything you're trying to say.
You're thinking about Atlas again.
It might be nice to have to carry the world on your shoulders,
but you don't think you could do that.