Fumbling for meaning.

Again.

I’m sorry.

i do this all the time.

when existential dread grips me,

my half-life is halved,

and i lose my umbrella,

again.

ever seen your own soul take a 9.00 p.m stroll?

i’m serious,

you depart from yourself,

and sadness is your friend,

and by that i mean something you can count on,

like a black sky at night, and a blue one at dawn,

and nothing makes you nervous,

not even thoughts of lost lovers,

and no tears are shed,

you made your own bed,

and the truth is that you’ll have to lie,

in it.

i hate Fridays,

sorry…

i hate people on Fridays,

i can’t stand the babble,

i can’t stand the fact, that this is me on better days.

and i can’t stand the fact that i am bitter about this,

tomorrow will come,

the illusion will persist,

the warm sun will rise,

the cold one will rise too,

in time,

eventually.

the world is still in spin,

and there will be the same magnitudes of everything,

no more love than is excessive,

no more hate than is constructive,

nothing new, nothing new…

recycled jobs, opportunities, girl-friends.

money is currency,

and the current always flows.

the ship always sails,

the fish will be fish,

the hunted will be salted and served,

but the prey will be haunted,

and the only one who’ll walk out with a boner in all this,

is the man,

with the all seeing eye.

and i am him, sometimes,

times like this…

because this feels so…

illegal.

sadomasochistic.

i have been found out.