I'm growing
old;
I'm broken
down,
and more than
anything,
I'm weary.
I laugh.
It's funny
how
one word-
that word
more than
any
other-
can be
the entire
condensation
of life.
It's all a
dream.
A dream
of life,
and
of death,
and of the million
other lives,
past lives,
whose rot
permeates through
your every day.
I find myself
asking:
What does that one
word
say about
me
as an
individual?
That word.
Weary.
What does that say?
And what about
Rot?
Who am I
really,
and how do these
syllables
project my
true
inner-
self?
The answer?
I'm
a montage,
a mosaic,
composed
strictly
of broken
thoughts
and yesterdays...
...of empty
urges
and
(crushed)
(neverending)
regrets.
My purpose is to
think-
to consider-
and at the end
of the
day,
the only thing
I have
is the past.
I'm an evolution
who's self-
conscious,
who's self-
aware
of his
better
(previous)
self.
What does this
mean?
It means
a weary life,
full of rot
and left to
collapse
upon
itself.