How do the days start?

But on the edge of turbulence, a shaky ground of thought as depression and joy linger at the tip of my mind. Straddling the anxieties of the perpetual existence of trying to get ahead.

To merely be but a success to my own steps as the drizzle of rain, clouds the morning sun. My eyes, saddled to the scene of grey like watching a broken bird struggle to fly. A sweet sense of bitter taste yet a niche of beauty extends to the misery.

My heart sunken to pits of lonely sorrow as it rocks back and forth like a child beaten by words, swinging alone upon a swing. Head tilted in defeat yet clings to the comfort of feet lifted from the ground. As if not touching the reality of soil separates them from the bearing moments of pain. That which cannot be felt of physical cannot harm in spirit?

Oh but here I be, looking into a tiresome rise of morning dew. My body aching from the nights terrible dreams. My jaw in ache from clenching; the body reacting to a different dimension of present. How strange, to feel dreams into the waking presence of now.

What can be done? For the weather pits itself against me as I fight in struggle to smile. To not feel alone as my daily endeavors are seen only by me. A recluse attempt to formulate a better future. But what is held in such endeavors, if my world is torn my dictation by body of politics?

Legislation led to mold me by law when I wish but ample freedom for my own will. Be I not of intellect to make my own choice? Or am I truly that of demise that legislation, far from my very bed, be the keeper of my breaths?

This I cannot believe, for if this be true, should we not then form nature to the legislation of law? For it follows not our asking but its own. And it seems of today nothing can be of own without law, but that bids adieu to the existence of self, of own.

So, not only do the weights of government bear down upon my soul like a pressed boot upon a rebel soul against tyranny. But so does the weight of my own thinking. These years have been but a terrible trial of suffering. A strange coming of change, It feels unorthodox from that of the past, the youth driven heart.

Or was I but foolish to think I could will myself to be free of my mistakes, the echoes of footprints? Must I wash myself in the salts of ocean, cleanse the scars, the presumptions of future and find myself in a new worldly thought?

Here, I stare among the wrinkles of my sheets at a pale ceiling looking back at me. A blank stare as if waiting my approval to speak, to move. But I hear only the voices in my head, like a constant whisper of an attentive ear to the hallows of a conch.

So I lay still in the distraction of rustling voice. I try diversion through exploration by false connection of the world through the technology at my hands. But alas, it brings no soothing, only a reminder of my failings and current troubles.

But I lift myself from the burdens of thought and place my weary soul upon the stability of the floor. A small thing assured by eye, stable footing for the body. But be that gone, like taking confidence by vision of looming doubt and there will be no place but the stumbling of I.

This is but a morning like many others, yet I triumph in giving it….I…another chance. For I am not God in sight of what can still be, but a creator in how I see.

Just a man that was once lost in the pursuit of understanding himself. I write short stories, poems, and motivational pieces. (Instagram @poemjunkybiffle)

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