What I am is hungry too. My body yearns for nourishment, but my conscious self forbade it. Rather, it has disrupted the natural attempt to acquire prepared foods or the initiation of persuading oneself to make a meal.
The life I grieve for is no longer the life I desire. However, I still mourn over the lost objects, in which I never owned, but was invested to have. In here, within, much has crumbled and I know but care not to clean up. Once I had nothing for a long period of time, but near and upon within my reach there is comfort, but, once again, I have failed.
I am conscious of the factors in which enables and causes the destructive implosions, but what I am is naught -- so should it matter?
