graffiti covered walls and men sleeping up against them, blind to the constant movement outside their haven. hitmen meet their targets, dealers find their addicts- it's all the same. we blissfully lather in the life we've been handed, whether from pre-adolescent versions of ourselves to what we have unfortunately become now, or from the first of the chain of events to the pathetic figure holding himself in the middle of the floor because of the last.
we learn to adapt.
the current presses hard against our bodies and as much as we beg and plead we cannot move. restless in the unchanging state of "uncontrollable", we wait our turn to be carried away. for some, that place is a deafening roar of imperfections, stress, and consequences. mine is silence. i do not wonder how i got here. it's not a matter of why God did this to me. i am not searching for someone to blame. i simply wait to move.
to know yourself provides the definite impossibility to excuse yourself.
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