Mind. Blank. Brain. Waves. Impulse.
Tomorrow. Yesterday. Whenever.
There is no escape. There is.
Maybe this is.
I might not even be, what’s the opposite of free will? That.
I write to escape. This. Reality. Consuming.
Time ticks, tick, tick, tick.
This cluttered brain does not want to respond to me.
These sentences I make do not free me.
Yet I write. Ink across these pages, pixels across these screens.
My thoughts a blur, incoherent.
My ramblings.
Story Of A Word 