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seasons turn; dirt turns to mud under storms. everything's coated in a fine layer of pollen. cleaning seems futile. strangely, my immune system has not rioted against it this year.

i feel as if i'm fighting a losing tide against the wall of objects i've deliberately stacked, carefully, to be dealt with later. weekends come and go, and i punch down the stack as if that will do anything. as soon as i mend one pair of pants, the other pair of pants rips open.

i'm itching for change, i'm itching for change. but it never seems like the right time. that's the point; it's never the right time.

i don't know what i'm so afraid of.

24 April 2019 20:46