Write something. Freaking anything. I could stitch myself to this chair and let words and meanings drudge through my grey matter, as if it mattered. Making no hasty advance to break the surface. There is no cavalry, just another bottle. There is no desperate fight for life, nor true declarations of my heart. There exists not even darkness, for that at least would be a familiar shroud upon my soul. I am in the void. (I am the void?) I know not sorrow, nor joy nor time. All is suspended in a prism of apathy. And here I shall wait. God help me I’ll wait.

To be clear, people don’t change, well not really anyways. Barely I am tethered, merely my pinky fingers wrapped tight and white-knuckled around the surface of the real world. The other eight digits, as well as my toes, particles, follicles…tongue and teeth, cling to my world. The place I most often inhabit.

But there is no change. I have always, and will always be some version of my many truths. Innocence and voyeur, wisdom and youth, mild self-loathing, apathetic, hating and hated, powerful, ambitious, longing for everything and anything and in constant awe of it all. My truths are in orbit, to come again and again, full circle from birth til our departures from these earthen husks. Mayhaps tomorrow the sphere will spin and soon I shall be reborn.