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as if i'm already dead, i write this now to you
June 7, 2024
everything is as it should be, and
yet it is not anymore, it will never be, it will always be different, always partially twisted.
am i twisted to say this? twisted - turned inside out
in a world of stiffened collars. i miss the grass. i am a fool to say it.
i miss oxygen. i miss being sunburned.
i miss living. i am not dead, and yet i am.
i may live another fifty, one hundred years
but i am a zombie, i am petrified wood.
i miss it all, but never as much as i wish i did.
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Are we all living or merely existing? Do we thrive or survive? In a lifetime of heartbeats, will any of them matter someday?