solitude

i never imagined that i would live without anticipation, without the exhilaration that comes from living, for something. living for something. prophesies mock me with the insides of my optimism, hollow, helpless.i see, and detest my feet. i walk, and abhor my eyes. to learn to become the sun, to be, simply, just by being a routine. to bathe the world in light, without feeling.

i am my friend. i am my emptiness.

my footsteps are graveyards for smiles, for meaning, for warmth. these slide off of me, after having risen to my throat or my eyes and finding no one there to juggle them with. you won't believe how solitary i've become. asking no questions, giving no answers. dreaming, but only in reminiscence. some days, i neglect to bring myself wherever i may go. sometimes i leave myself on my bed, curled up with an immaterial grime.

and when i come home, i tell myself of the graveyards, of the sun and the darkness outside, of words and thoughts divorced, and in general, of the immitigable flatness of solitude. and i would shiver and toss while i listen, wondering which of me would outlive the other, which of me would yield to the wind and become meaningless altogether.