If having uneventful days were a crime, I would be put away in jail for life, as I have piles of them. My little mountain of boring. More dangerous than Mt. Everest.
It is two in the morning. A proper time to complain about my sore limbs. They do not like running at all, and neither does my mind. It hinders its ability to think about awful things, which is its only true talent.
I need more light in the living room. Darkness holds many things. None that I dare touch, which means nothing to the monsters that take advantage of the darkness. They will reach out to me, whether I like it or not. More light. Someone, put a sun in here!
Run. A sailor out alone, friend of the sea. Hold me tight. Hide. A little piece of land under a tree, seeking enlightenment, baby. Run. Siren, sing and take a risk. Hide. The fear does not root itself in a sailor’s heart. Run. And if each branch offered a fruit, it would burn all malice out of speech. Hide. Small fins causing tidal waves. Run. Irrational fears and improbabilities. The smell of acetone brings back memories unclear, and unsettling. A sailor’s arms are strong. The wailing is stronger. Hide.
The world is a part of me, and I fear it. I fear that part of me. It is difficult for me to make the connections, that others seem to make with perfect ease.