You know, not everything is so precise. Even diamonds have their imperfections, their flecks of coal so exquisitly entombed. To be cut from diamond; I wonder why I'd even want to be so rigid.
They say idle hands are the devil's play thing. I wonder what they call busy hands? Murdering, raping hands? I think it's a scam.
Sometimes I think when I fall (or fail) it's my desire to return to the earth. This existence is so troublesome. A stone, or a tree, I'd feel at peace then. What's this need for action, for fast-paced ridiculous amount-to-nothings? Dust to dust.
I feel heavy, like I want to sleep. Slowly collapse to the floor and wait for the air under me to collapse. Inch by inch, slink closer to the core. Eon by eon, closer to it all.
I want to feel oneness. Like individuality is just the chaos they want us to believe.
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