Stress and rage move hand in hand, they are dancers in a ring of roses, made only out of thorns.


I am a beacon and out flows lines of ebony that crease under the strain of gravity, telling me to lower my volume. When i want to break out i am hushed by the silence of the room closing in, saying shush now child in that patronising tone that gives leave to my authority as speaker. I’m wearing a collar of words, stemming the breath that is trying to escape. I am intoxicated by carbon dioxide dreams lulling me towards goodbye.

What brings on the frustration that manages to filter through the crevices of my mind? Pressing against my temples like piercings along a spine? This is a constraint upon my thought process; i am no longer all seeing but half blinded by confusion and despair. Everything seems awry while weight after weight lays me down to rest in a grove with no willing protection against the fall of raindrops, pressing me to the earth. But i can no longer resist the power of nature, drawing me into her through incantations of an easier path where we no longer need worry about trivialities, about society and constructing identity as if it was the one true meaning of life. To work towards working and working towards more work. Is this the cycle we are doomed to recite in this live, die, repeat-VR game-world-structure? There is no pause, no second chance. So where do we stand when the blankets have suffocated our dreams and the smallest words seem to shatter our nerves?

All that remains is us, an expanse of crops, pulled too early and trembling because we have been abused by the time spent musing over rules of what we have been made to think is important but not what makes us free. To stress is to feel as barren as the ocean when coral reefs have fallen to ashes. It is to feel like water slowly boiling in a pan, knowing that soon, we will burst.


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