I have taken flight from any sort of reality into the wilderness. The need for solitude is a necessity for life now; it is something as familiar as breathing.
The final strains of hope grow weaker each night and it becomes almost impossible to decipher between sitting in this place alive or walking through the last ghosts.
The external circumstance that was my shared life with you is no longer here, so I return to the self that has again risen to just below my skins surface.
It was one of the things I had succeeded so well in burying, but now it returns.
And the sickness is unto when?
The final strains of hope grow weaker each night and it becomes almost impossible to decipher between sitting in this place alive or walking through the last ghosts.
The external circumstance that was my shared life with you is no longer here, so I return to the self that has again risen to just below my skins surface.
It was one of the things I had succeeded so well in burying, but now it returns.
And the sickness is unto when?