Life

is a bubble and it’s a funny thing. we wake up each time rolling around a repetition of its absurdity and in the teeny weeny space that we rest in we see reflections of the numerous roads we’ve covered and most of the time we fail to laugh. and we lay our life down in front of us but all we have is a blank canvas we have yet to fill, still we lie around as if everything is predetermined. so now we float around in pools like kings of the universe, and i get sick just thinking about how i can’t exempt myself from the mediocrity of it all, because i am tired and clueless and wondering and wandering and forever accepting and submissive and lethargic and i’ve run out of words to describe the sinking feeling in my chest as i bid my fingers total release. the words hang heavy in my head and i light up a cigarette so together with the smoke they slide through the holes of my body towards the daylight or the night sky, whichever is there to embrace my existence for the time being. because i am alone we are alone and everybody’s looking for somebody to exhaust all the chemicals in our brains on, somebody to get horny for, somebody to miss, somebody to chase, somebody to write about cry about and then eventually lose. every time.

is anything we make it out to be and no single soul will ever be able to do it right because there’s always going to be something to fix, something to scrutinize, something to change and we keep changing like restless pussies tumbling through the highways and we’ll never be able to make it to the junction where deviating roads promise a hint of escape because time is indistinguishable and we always lose ourselves in moments of nulled inhibitions and step right over the moments of uneasy encounters. but i digress. like i said, no one will ever be able to do it right and no one should ever complain about the way i abuse my sentences and neglect periods and misuse commas, the same way i can’t complain about the way you’re wasting your time and working your ass off for something you don’t need. because what you need is the initiative to study the reflections on your tiny bubble and pop it and then fall right down through the endless parade of bubbles, lost arms and legs and sticks and twigs and fucking branches, leaving them to draw your life story that drips of your anguish. and so you continue to fall, forever falling, and i have no fucking clue where our end is, what it’s like or if it’s even there at all.