Wake up, work, go to sleep… repeatedly. A broken record of time… assuredly! I haven't the time, to put it simply, for anything at all that isn't strictly related to my productivity.
Painting is paining me. All my poetry banality. Writing seems a malady. Meditation mocking me. My thoughts become cacophony. Now reading seems a chore to me. Yoga neglected lazily. Activity: impossibility. Joys succumbed to apathy. Limbs succumbed to lethargy. Games shelved idly. Guitars biding silently. Isolated idiosyncratically in agonizing atrophy.
Disillusioned by wage slavery, malnourished, and in poverty; weathered is my sanity amid this rat race of futility to be capitalism's casualty. All I want is to be free, to live and love with liberty, to sit beneath a verdurous tree simply laughing at absurdity, and enjoying nature listlessly. But for reasons unknown to me it costs us money to be bound in eternity with an inherent possibility for felicity and ecstasy in such a maverick reality of such stupendous rarity amid a cosmos of infinity. A mote of consciousness seemingly (against all odds, most definitely) emerging miraculously?
Here's your bill. Rent's late.