I am torn. There is a glacier making its way down a current, heading straight to an island of wildlife, and, I am sitting here bleeding nonstop, thinking of a cardigan I want, that is way beyond my budget.
Why are we this way?
How did I get this way?
I can answer that.
I assimilated.
I stopped looking at tragedy for too long, unless I’m staring at it with my dead eye, fixated and broken.
I want out.
I want to expire.
Combust.
No pain, I’ve had enough of that.
Fat forward.
Then, in the middle of scrolling endlessly through my tracking devise, I begin to cry. I picture the penguins, and the sea life obliterated. Unbeknownst to them, their fate anticipated by others, but not them.
Yet, I find freedom in that.
But I continue to cry because life makes you keep thinking.
Makes you think of yourself, makes you selfish.
Makes you swallow your spit.
Makes you bitter.
I fear we are at a slow end to this circling, we are a swarm of tombs, gasping.
We reach for love and cashmere as if we’ve never touched either.
Still, I wonder why I feel so drawn to this cardigan, and why I cry at the thought of a glacier destroying oblivious animals.
Perhaps I fear the cold.
Perhaps I fear extinction.
