The futility of breathing sounds like a serenade to a drama queen, but until you feel it, you cannot even begin to comprehend.
Daylight dawns, tinged orange through the heavy calico curtains and coating everything it touches in a glow that is neither nurturing nor warm.
The very fact that you’re awake, alive, breathing, is beyond your understanding, bewildering, an astonishment that never seems to end.
A rage thrums up from within you like a beehive momentarily stunned by smoke that is now recovering, its occupants beginning an angry swarm.
Feeling out of step with the world, like life is buffering for you and you spend your every day paused, poised, watching it stutter forward, stumbling, catching up, keeping going.
You are a ghost, a self-prophesied zombie, stumbling through your existence looking for something on which to feed.
But there is no one, nothing around you with which you feel connection, and so you remain starving, raging, with nothing appetising
To bite into or even sample. Clueless, out of step, no recognition of what you want or even need.
You wonder if to others you look broken, but, judging from the expressions on their faces they don’t even see you.
You may as well be that ghost, haunting a world to which you’ve never felt you belong.
Whimpering, moaning, shuffling along like all the good ghost stories tell you to do,
Yet certain in knowing that even this, somehow, you are getting wrong.
Serenade yourself to sleep at midnight, daylight, twilight.
No one will care to learn the melody and timbre of your tears.
Sings songs of wistfulness, giving up, letting go, moving on. It’s all alright.
None of it matters. No words will drive anyone away, because there’s no one even here.