What's locked inside is sheltered, is contained, is abstained from fresh air and sunlight; folded and pressed through the mail slot, towering on the floor like stacks of unopened advertisements, corporate/company mail. I forget to inhale. I regret what has failed. Like trudging through wet cement, like the air has turned to gelatin.
The slate remains blank: it feels like there's no place to begin and repetitive days can bake out the will to create; can make hours feel like extended stays. I waste time spent face-to-face. Connections crumble, Pipes break.
The grind/the routine ruins sleep. I shut my eyes, but I'm just counting sheep. My mind refuses to let me dream.
"I spent the night wide awake,
And then I looked outside and it was a beautiful day,
I'm rolling with the punches while I pick up the pace,
'cause nothing's gonna fuck with me today."
With the sun at my back, I ice my bruises, shred what's useless. Hey! Let's do this!