I feel so alone in this world, in my world. I feel like a freak of my thoughts.

Solo hours attempting at deriving an outcome from thinking, many stubborn questions but only a bouldered heart drags inside this well-fatigued frame. As I cushion myself on physical comfort, my neck chokes with irreversible regret. My forecasts of a silently delirious breakdown does not actualize, but I am still feeling. The years has licked me by and there are stains of chase. Evidences of the chase leave me exasperated, but it is all well-known that the chase is involuntarily infinite. Infinity. Such a sacred word to be married to a jading source. The irony of it all, mocks my every futile effort.

God, I am lost. I have stopped being hopeful of a tomorrow. Today is the furthest I can go, or so I tell myself. But every today manages to survive to another tomorrow. And merely surviving makes me no happier than the thought of re-staging out another tomorrow purely on the basis of only pulling through.

I want certainty. I want consiatency. I want both, in the happiness that lives too short to comprehend.