i'm getting killed
by a pretty good life

it's not satisfying at all to get over something. there's no weight off your chest, no newfound direction. you wake up, you go about your day, and you're over it. you go to work, go to school, and you're over it. nothing you do is unimaginably changed. you just sit, and think, "well that was pretty silly" and an entire year just vanished. you're better, i suppose. your friends say you seem it. happier, somehow. your therapist tells you there's a light in your eyes and a fire in your heart she's found a joy to let well up again, that it was always there, through everything. it never vanished, did it? your parents say your new haircut looks nice. how much you smoke these days. how long the bus takes to get you to class (for the thousandth time).

and it's all still there. sitting. quite politely, honestly. you forget how you could have ever gotten that angry, that mean. you used to be really mean, right? someone said that to you, a while ago now. not very politely. it's there. staring. and you don't really care, even if it wasn't before. he's been here longer. but he doesn't make you cry, not anymore. maybe when this pillar is wartorn, and covered in moss you won't have the time to cry about it anymore. too busy moving

but what to do you have to move towards now? the brightest star in the sky, even trying to kill you, showed exactly where to run from. what do you do after drunkenly fighting a ghost in an alleyway for three hours? just go home like nothing happened? i can't stop now. i just patched the sails. i was ready. i was so, so unbelievably ready to be at war for the rest of my time on this earth, to punch until it turned black and blue. i wrote a warsong for you. it's ugly. i don't have anyone to perform to these days..