So there is no tomorrow after all.
Everything just stays the same as if time has ceased to turn. Of course, I will grow old and die, but my depression is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe I have made a mistake. Maybe I am the mistake.
Maybe. . .
The wind and the trees tell me they know something I don’t know. They mock me with their beauty as does the stranger’s smile. Have I forgotten the lost? Have I forgotten death? Have I forgotten life itself?
Still, the cigarette in between my fingers burns away and I’m forced to steel myself against my hated enemy: love.
While the clock ticks my life away and I swim in an ocean of self perpetuated misery.