and I whinge and I whinge and I whinge. to be silent is to be left with myself or the world, and I cannot seem to stomach either. I breathe with my eyes closed to wait for sleep again. when it comes it ends and all I want is more.
privilege poisons everything. I watch the credits run and loath the day that's soon to come. knowing what I know I sleep and dream. in the morning I fold and wash myself through gritted teeth. when I sit to read the news it's for myself, to test the pulse and what's still working. I've watched children dying on my phone every morning for two years now. still the ego persists: my own trials and simulations colonise the first and final thoughts of every day. a year ago I wept on the steps of town hall for the loss of human conscience. tonight I skipped the vigil for a bedtime I won't make.
words don't mean much anymore. I listen to people who still know how to use them. sometimes I think about the thoughts they choose not to say. more often I think of myself. when prodded for attention I feel my own words spill out in uncertain breaths. they do so without meaning. I don't recognise the voice. the words are stolen from places I can't remember. I don't know what I'm saying and don't really care. words don't mean much anymore. how much can they matter in an age of apathy?
my taxes have been killing kids since the first time I claimed pay. I’ve known better for two years now and I still wake up for more.
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