Curate, connect, and discover
I'll just be chilling and laughing about something then suddenly my voice is the grossest thing I've ever heard, my chest is too big, my words are too mixed. The walls are too tight and air isn't right and I'm doing... nothing to stop it. I sit and I stare and I am for once silent. The people around me do not question, as silence from such a noisy creature is rare and peaceful. Yet does the silence kill the lamb, blood trickles down your arm as a stream trickles water, and nothing makes sense in the end. You read this for what? You breathe for what? You continue this scrappy life of passing through the world, there but not. Aware but not. Conscious but not. Hopeful but not. You are you. I am me. Or must I be? Are we to be? Are you me? Am I you? Who is to say? Who is to blame? What is to blame? You spiral farther and farther and deeper and lower and the endless seam cracks and breaks and you're confused but you don't dare call out, not to the void. Not to such a precious thing. Cherished pain and fragmented memories and pointless words that scream nothing with wishes to speak of something, anything, so much more than this mess.
Because art is an expression, and nothing is real. If everything is made up, how are we to feel?
They say to count your days and keep your blessings close
Or was it the other way, where nothing is to cope?
Because you read this and wonder if there's even a point, a message
So, I'll be straight here- I think I want to end this