The fog.

Mother, I am scared.

I have fallen into the trap I have for so long, despised.

My fatigue is preventing my left brain from utilizing it’s intentions and I find myself sat in front of items of uselessness for extended periods of time, more often than not, for no purpose.

The curve is one of good cause; it is shaping the foundations of a bewildered existence and forming my uses for hands that need exercise – though this does not mean that I fear the regiment any less.

I can barely hear the whir of the gears over the sound of the extractor fan; which is set to go off at precisely 22:30 and return at 06:30. Does that mean that the interior is broken?

I am scared for my insanity, which appears to creep slowly closer to the door; in lieu of any vitality, it shall depart for good I fear.

I once craved monotony due to historical evidence on the part of not having stability in the eyes of a good society; the thin roots that find heritage from the gypsies are that of original hatred of which I will perhaps forever distance myself from. You cannot choose your inheritance.

The mud that covered me as a child is a dwindling speck in my iris but the smell of wood smoke is strong in my nostrils and I hope to immerse myself in the reeds and fire once again.

Maybe not now, but one day before I depart, the seed of my loins will shelter under canvas and seek adventure with no guilt for their nakedness; a piece of flint encased in sinew piercing the sun with primitive ambition and a desire for pleasure in all it’s forms.

For now though, it is time to step back and relinquish wealth and comfort for truth.


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