Mountain

It’s really just one of those days not even French poetry would properly describe.

Lethargy.

I could really just sit here and try to figure out every imperfection of mine, and every I could possibly hate about myself, but that would certainly be a waste of time. It’s too bad I’m wasting my time as it is.

It’s a typical day of doing nothing but listening to your mind numb, burning it away with video games you really stopped caring for but still play anyways, and still curious what it’d feel like to be under the fungal radar. My day would really be better spent with sport or exploration, but I’ve not the courage to do any of it on my own. It is not really the case of cowardice, but rather discomfort. Lethargy, perhaps, but it’s never nearly numb enough to feel that way. I just need a little push, that’s all.

Better yet, shouldn’t I be studying for an exam?

There are better things to do in life, but I’m still just watching my day wither away doing essentially nothing. I’ve been working away at trying to impress all that watch me, but I haven’t taken the time to really think about what is it in life that I truly want to pursue. There’s nothing I can’t try, but there so much I can’t do.

It would be nice to watch the sky fly past me, like I’m significant enough for the sky to move around me. Nothing but grass, perhaps a pair of sunglasses and the sky. And myself. Let’s not bother considering the bites I could possibly get, or the damage to my skin. It’d be a beautiful day.

But instead, I’m enclosed in a box, back against a bed, watching the ceiling as it stays completely still. My days have been so sterile and I have nothing to speak for it. Perhaps I’ll regret it when there is no outside to this box.

There are too many allusions in only one frame of time.

I’m tired.