Tip-toe around, as not to step on the broken shards, shattered pieces of my soul, strewn across the floor.
Time stands still, only for a moment, then screams come, fluent panic in the dark.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
In one, two-three, hold – one, two- three, exhale.
There was a time the regiment was not a requirement for survival.
Now, it’s a necessity. Survival of the fittest or the mere being of existence.
Either way, it has to be the right kind of wrong to exist.
Engulfed by the daily grind of the same schedule.
Wake, coffee, a million thoughts, work, home.
Chew, swallow, repeat.
You’d think after all that you’d be full, but, no!
Empty, hollow and restless. The manual said nothing about this.
The daily grind; a round-about of monotony.
I want off this ride.
Original written work by Gillian Gibson aka Crimson Quintessence 2018.
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