There are no days anymore, the numbers change, the weather changes but the days do not, it is merely one prolonged and vague day that masterfully hides its repetition by creating different masking to the details.
I do not recall it being like that since I spawned into this realm, a human among many. I remember it being different each passing morning sun and slightly more vivid, alive per say. Unfortunately I started seeing, beyond the illusions created to blind us from how basic life really is until the aforementioned realization.
Sleep has gotten shorter as the visions an obscene amount of my sight. There is not a beginning nor an ending, every supposed start is a theoretical stop, truth hides within the lechers and no good deed goes unpunished.
My writing seems greatly affected by the this lack of an identifiable timeline to my existence, the words are fleeting, the ideas are circles and the paper often looks bored. Yet I write and I write and I write in hopes that midst the mist, a surge of brilliance will welcome me into its arms and lets me sleep in peace or in pieces even.
Among these wanderings, I dive slowly, move my arms towards the distant surface and as my head pierces through, the air suffocates me even further until I die, descend and wish for it to be the end. To my dismay, I find no relief and no release, there is no end, there is only a big, red and angry replay button allowing the melancholic saga to continue.