Cycle of the Loop

Days mesh into one inseprable lump of sleeplessness, agony and loneliness, of no one to talk to, no one to touch, of no one to touch you back.
I was always withering, mentally, losing supple, healthy bouncy white cells and grey, now I wither physically, sunken eyes and lifeless lips.
This is not a prison, no. Not in the legal sense. But there is no sleep, there is food that I hate, people that I shirk from and freedom that I crave.
What is this all for- this voluntary prison? This prison of thoughts, this killer of creativity and this stunter of joy- joy that was scarce, barely there to begin with.
What was there to begin with? Just a farce, the constant burden of having to disguise oneself, like a scar, a disfiguration to be kept away, away from the sun and away from the rest. Like exposing my true self would expose the truth about life itself.
Because I am life, withering, pruny with muddy waters and rotten toes. As I live and I breathe, life lives and it breathes, stunting me and I it. But there is no solace to be gained, no rectification, no final solution; they say life is precious…
So we live on and we breathe on.

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