Member-only story
Eternal Sedation
The present of the future
I feel inauthentic. I feel sick.
I feel trapped, like a cat in a bag before being hammered to a pulp of rotten flesh and nails and teeth and hair.
I think every day; but my thought is that of a juvenile, insipid mind.
I write every day; but my writing is that of a regurgitated morality.
I listen every day; but my hearing is that of prejudice and misapprehension.
I speak every day; but my words are those of duplicity and discord.
I see every day; but my vision is that of a clouded imagination.
I walk every day; but my stride is that of a dystopian clone.
I work every day; but my perception is that of a misguided child.
I play music every day; but the melodies are those of elusive chimes of desolation.
I promise every day; but my promise is that of a beast of burden.
I love every day; but my love is that of agonizing indifference.
I cleanse every day; but the water is that of self-flagellation and toil.
I pray every day; but my prayer is that of ingratitude and misgivings.
I sleep every day; but my sleep is that of dreams from a compassionate past.
And I wake up every day. Upon my waking, my awareness rests.
I do not repeat this cycle; it repeats itself.
I clothe myself in black every day. At last, they have begun to absorb sunlight.
