Tuirse

How long could I wander in saudade before collapsing?

Would the trees grow their roots around me, dragging me under until I compost into something more useful?

Could I come back as a fungi, learn the secrets of the forest?

Imagine being immersed in petrichor, knowing your purpose.

Mine is ruin, empty bones of waste, shuttered and dank.

It does. Not. Matter.

None of this does.

These useless hollow words do not.

This shell does not.

My death will not.

This monotonous life, limping along, day by day, minute by minute, horror by horror, wake wake wake wake wake wake wake pain pain pain pain pain pain fight fight fight cry cry cry fat fat fat no no no no no no NO

no

Look at this…crystals and cats and dirt and crap. Where will it go? Trash. Where will I go? Nowhere. Nothing.

Pointless.

I have fought so hard…to just be and feel and give love…beauty and songs and starlight…

Why? Why.

I cannot another minute exist. No.

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