Tired and Weary I Exist like A Journey Without End
My imaginary friends comfort my loneliness. To say they are imaginary isn't quite right but I have no labels that fit.
They sit with me and watch my dreams as I sleep.
Nothing can truly satisfy my desires. So I try to rest in the place that they are born from.
I feel so weary with life. The possibility of being incarcerated or persecuted a constant shadow. If I gave up drugs and alcohol and unhealthy eating how would I cope with the agonies of existence? Would I become stronger more like the deities I call my friends?
Talking to most people just leaves me hungry. They cannot seem to express their deepest self's. We have been conditioned that to do so is inappropriate or impolite.
I am so restless for something that has no name has no words. It smoulders like a burning ember in my gut. And I can't even ease the burning with writing. It feels like impossibility like if I could perform a miracle I could then express a small piece of it. I long for infinite forests to get lost in. To forget my reflection and voice to live like a wild animal.
Sadness can feel soft, sleepy and serene. A kind of comfortable carelessness with the world. Like being wrapped up in a protective bundle, disconnected from the rest of society. Impervious to the hurtful existence of other people.
Every church is a museum or a brothel and still God is not dead. Because lonely children can't help falling in love with him.