2.4.15

Pain

How fragile yet these bodies be that betray us upon the want to work. Shall I paint from bed? A mirror and a drug-fogged mind? I convalesce to want to move, to Overcome, to betray it back for proof of strength. Or to make us friends that I may listen, to slow satisfy the want to be of good use. There's trouble in stillness, a spasm of fleeting peace. I feel time! I feel old! I'm subject to the world and its moralities! How fragile yet though is my pride, that I must sit and feel, still.