Transitory
There are those moments sometimes, when nothing is worth it anymore, and silence is so preferable. The music doesn't move me and the light isn't wonderous and the people are flat and mundane. I come so close to not caring, but it's an excess of care; the same way a person freezing to death feels warm and sleepy, except not as enjoyable. I won't let myself finish the self depreciating thoughts, and so I sit there, blank, a thousand half formed thoughts battering against the question of why I can't be anyone but myself. I wouldn't want to be, but the moths keep coming to the light, half finished, burned by the hot glass until they drop and die. except that there's an endless supply of my unfinished thoughts, and the glass gets thin sometimes.