The race to nothing

One may sit and breathe slowly, if the day will allow, and yet it will be of no consequence in the end.

For night will crawl, as it always has, within such agonizing hours and terrible minutes, that one’s very thoughts unravel and reveal.

Will one tell oneself, that this is the cure, even though, it surely shall remain, an imaginary silence?

A false calm returned through this, the most tarnished of mirrors.

And as the screaming of the stillness devours your fragile courage, rendered far too weak to cling in anything other than desperation, you break apart like melting steel, broken without breaking.

One will hope to reason with a mind that turns to dust, at the slightest grain of truth.


Within the medicated man-child, a lost and broken soul becomes learned of despair.