There is little left. I have said the words and now the ball is my court. The truth is heavy and laden with consequences. Yet if I was gone, I wouldn’t feel the impact, the pain would stop. Every story has a root, I can see mine, waving in depth below me and it is tugging me down. Pulling me towards the earth and I am losing sight of the sky. Last night I dreamt of gold lattice weaving designs over my spirit, a light radiating through, pushing out the poison. My attempt of healing and I woke up feeling alright, as the waking seeped in, it flooded back. This same trap of mind, within it, the cold hard truths of the path I am choosing. Saying goodbye at the end of every thought, talking myself through the day and ending it on the note ‘I can’t do this’. I am just so sick of being. The clouds have shielded the sun for months now, and I am not looking up anymore, not hopefully that it will change. I won’t be able to handle the disappointment, the wet eyes and distant cries; it’s why I think I am mostly alone. The body, mind, soul, corroding and falling farther and farther behind. It’s hard to write about it, to give it weight and see if for what it is. So much energy goes into lighting it up again but it’s burnt out. It’s going to win this time around, the words are rotting.