It\'s a shame that wherever this heart goes, it will torment its carrier
Not even so much as death could resolve this affliction and doom
Is my heart what carries my destiny? Can I trade mine for yours?
Maybe that\'s the meaning of love - that someone take the burden, mend it with unconditional adoration
And that I safe-keep and protect theirs. That heart of gold, the one that doesn\'t curl up on itself or swell with shame
Will my gut stop knotting up? Will that fog stop filling my head? Is it finished when I am assisted, or does someone have to keep it lingering?
That song that says, once I\'m gone, someone else must have to feel this way
Does that give what I\'m feeling any more validity? That, maybe, this isn\'t mine?
But it feels so personal. It feels so definitely mine - this loss, this defeat, this uselessness.
There is simply no incentive in tolerating it.
But what the philosophers of the century claimed was missing one point to existence -
Not that it is a fierce battle, conflict, or determination to live, but the absence of struggle against the force of monotony and taking day by day simply for the sake of that you might as well.
Here we are, each of us individually, forgotten - making sense of the world through the collective eyes of a community that only exists in our minds.
Myself, for one thing, was never a part of - therefore, I can stay safe in my corner dismissing the idea that anyone might even care
And live, though apologetically, according to my lack of diligence and willpower.
What would anyone do? The people surrounding me are forced to leave me to my own devices, and when I\'m gone, there will be nothing amiss.
So long as it is out of my hands, I escape responsibility - taking every measure not to step out of line and make any sort of name for myself.
I might as well, because what does it matter if I live or I am gone, anyway? It doesn\'t matter now and it won\'t matter then.