Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.



Running out of breath, but I got stamina.





"I hate to break it to you, but what people call 'love' is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. It hits hard Morty then it slowly fades leaving you stranded in a failing marriage. I did it. Your parents are going to do it. Break the cycle, Morty, rise above, focus on science."

— Rick.




————————




Which would be more selfish—
to live each day in ignorant bliss
where the numbing pain is smothered
by the artificially tattooed smile
situated strategically on the wrist;
or to live each day in unintended agony
where the pain is unmasked and on display
surrounding the forced laughter
and diminishing it into realism?




————


Sitting in the center of a balloon-filled room,
awaiting the non-existent impending doom,
she cried and cried till her eyes went dry
and she still didn't know why.

Sitting on a park bench by the lake,
wondering if being born was a mistake,
she pulled her hair and stomped her feet,
and she was almost going to admit defeat.

Sitting under the running shower getting drenched,
cowering at a corner with fists clenched,
she was only certain of one thing,
and she knew all the unhappiness she'd bring.

Sitting with a glass of whisky at the bar,
trying hard to forget about the scar,
she didn't even stop to think,
and she ordered a few more to drink.




————


One life event could change many things.
Alteration of life in its entirety
and up to the point where
the line between
breaking out of it
and breaking down
slowly dissipates.


————


Sweat is trickling down the forehead.
The sound of each droplet splashing onto the table.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.


Jetzt bin ich hier.
Wie nah bin ich nach unten?
Es ist kalt.
Kann ich jetzt aufhӧren?

No, take your time.
No one is rushing you.
I'm still around.
Remember, remember.

Sweat is trickling down the temples.
The echo of each droplet crashing into the table.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.

Nein, nein.
Wann werde ich wissen?
Nichts macht Sinn.
Wann bekomme ich irgendwelche Antworten?

No, you are safe.
No one needs to know.
Come back around.
Remember, remember.


————




Sweating became a routine.
Wiping away the sweat
with a clean sheet of tissue,
only to find it stained with filth.

Thinking became a chore.
Questioning the existence of the mind
with an invitation to delusion
to help take the voices away.




————————






M.

 I'm free to be the greatest,
I'm alive.

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