When does a person stop living? Is it at the moment one loses touch of breath and air; or at the day one feels the steadiness and subtlety of a loss that foregoes all worth and meaning?
Maybe we all have our own ghosts...
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I've started to appreciate cliches and their purpose for haunting each day that might go unlived. Sadly, I am one of those people, who neglect waking up to his/her irrational fear...
The fear of pangs and hurts... The fear of wanting to be of just worth... For I'd forever be a pessimist... A beloved one at that...
***
Happiness is a choice, one of the cliches I've learned to acknowledge and love... And for now, I choose to be ignorant to it, and instead, first find it's utmost essence...
I took a peek at those wilted predicaments just last night, before I hung up the telephone...
I chose to welcome mirth, in the presence of you...
However, I know no other way... Similar to the postman's (Pablo Neruda) work, mine has been bound to metaphorical gloom and suicide... I hate it, for I've become a parasite to sadism, much worse, to my very self...
I've loved pins and needles for so long...
***
How would you know if not a deja vu risk? Trailers for Momentum's next issue... Boundless. No more than a word.
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