The colloquialism "stress will kill you" is true:
I can feel it ravaging my soul and my physical body. One's heart, one's ribcage, shouldn't feel like this. How long, do you think, until it takes Its Toll and makes Its Call. I feel Anxiety sucking the breath from my lungs; What else can constrict my chest so? My heart aches both physically and soulfully-- I know what squeezes. I pound my breast, I gulp deeply to expand my lungs. No change results: tightness remains. How long am I expected--oh-- DEMANDED To live as such... Suffering. Surviving. Trial after Trial After Trial. After Trial After Trial After Trial. You demand that I exist and continue. For what? To ease your own fear and pain? At the expense of my Own Life? Yes, you do, don't do. But I'm fucking tired. I weary of fights and struggles and of Just getting By. Survival is for our ancestors, And wild deer and insects. Greedily, I want more. If that's wrong, then let me, Please, for any gods' sake, Go the way of the wild deer, the insect, the ant Crushed thoughtlessly beneath your sandal. For I am not interested in this kind of living. I am not interested in Surviving, Getting By, Making it... From one emergency to the next. What is the fucking point?
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Life.There is fiction. There is life. What is the difference? My WritingAll rights reserved. No part of this website may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by and information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author. Archives
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