Stuck in perpetuity, this never-ending cyclical holding-pattern, whereby I’m endlessly circumnavigating my life. 

What kind of life is this? 

There’s nothing to meet against my own depth; I am sentenced to a forever reaching aimlessly into the ether. 

Without reception. 

Without resistance. 

Without end. 
Two years. Thirty three years. 

Everywhere – so far and yet nowhere at all. 

Sum of defective parts, of lost potential.

An uneducated opinion. 

A punchline. 

Ex of everyone and everything and yet never anything at all to anyone.

This is what for and how long?

This is what they call better? 

This is what they call normal? 

This is wasted air and withheld compost. 

Life wasted. Depth wasted. 

This is nothing; no one; never was. 

This is numb, this is painless. 

This is empty. This is alone.

The lost wanderer was never going anywhere and she was taking her sweet time realising it. 

This is pity. Is purposelessness. 




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