not too horrible.

Because I'd wake up every day with the world in my pocket and air outside all my spaces. Gravity was still, just theory, the sky wasn't the tallest thing, and the sun was always late to get anywhere, anywhere but here--for me. But today I wake and nothing was too important, and that wasn't too horrible. Drifting away from everything that matters, wont be too horrible. afterall. 

I don't feel the compulsory need to love and understand a thing; I don't feel the compulsory need to feel; I don't feel the need to understand life any more than I need to understand death; perhaps both life and death simply exist and isn't special at all; and that isn't too horrible to believe in if it fills me up, plenty enough to feel nothing.

I often toiled into the madness of disorder; but if everything is where it isn't supposed to be for me, I hope it's where it's supposed to be for someone else. My eyes close and no thoughts of magic is important. I accept living in dark illumination, the cold but bitterless heart, the empty pockets, they are all,

Not too horrible. 

It's as if the emptiness was what I needed to feel alive. To all the things that enlivened me, I let my eyelids be the curtains and feel the closing in that. Deeper into the nothing, deeper into who I am, I'll stare; curious as to what I'll find for myself.

So far--I find, nothing

Not too horrible.