You think that if you keep within the tiny bars and make your cell a busy street then your eyes will turn blind to the big picture, your eyes will go blind to the reality, and the scattered mess on the floor will be all that will matter.
I get into this rush, this caffeine high that doesn't settle for a while, I run and try to stick my foot in as many doorways as I can. I'll enter this art competition, and I will sign up for this and that and then I will volunteer and work and be the best, and I will draw and write and build a rocket and I will fry myself to the moon and solve all of the words problems within the space of a week. I want so much, this burning desire, it lives inside me I am not a dormant mouse, I cannot stay still, my mind wasn't built for the depression that I have been stuck in. I was born to do, to be a doer, someone who would perhaps not be known as much to the world, but I would have a select few people who would mean so much to me and I would mean the world to them and that would be enough, and I would work and run and rush around and live and breathe and have a life.
And so I rush and I run and I pick up so many blocks to try and build this life, but then this rush this yearning for life it doesn't last long. I spend a September doing and then the rest of the 11 months of the year, I spend in bed, too weak to do anything, too weak to realise that I can do things, I can have something but the mind the games it all is too much to bear.
And that's when death becomes a topic that sets up home in that tiny dark corner of your cell, and it breathes and grows as you crumble and die, and it all turns black and blue and we freeze to death.
So much to do, too many things to participate in and it's making me sick.
... but then.. But then, stop whining, stop spilling tears over such tedious matters, this is life, it's not so hard, just breathe and walk and stop thinking.
