It's getting more difficult to breath and lately, giving in to the urge of dying feels easier than that of living. Vague, I know, but for some reason the hold this addiction has on me won't allow spoken words about the angry facts; that I'm driven to insanity, everyday, until there's just a shell with my fading shadow at the helm of my soul. I am in pain and I'm not still young; I look it and act it, but it hurts. It's been a long time since I've changed who I am but this is the first time it's scary. My imagination and intellect used to astound and now, my mind... it's pale with trivia and popularity. I have succumbed to my faults, no better then they.
Every now and again I still see Him through fogged glass and sloppy flecks of tiny droplets splashed onto my window during a heavy rain. Each pearl of water, a memory, living out it's purpose. Tumbling down the window, burning the reason of His importance on the sill of my mind once again. And I wonder what he's thinking. Then, to myself, I say, "It'll never change or get better unless I force it. When did I become so afraid and weak? I just don't want this to be the end of my life."
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