55

Life is as a day
beginning in solitude, barely self-aware
the wallpapers of a foggy mind peel away
and reveal us to be ourselves.

Then the event itself
For some it rains, others it shines
that pathetic fallacy has never meant as much as it does now.
Yet though the windows of the place we close ourselves out from the world, we long for what we hide from.

But in the end, all equates.
The end is constant. We are ourselves, weary, alone
boxed out from reality
voluntarily shrouded from it all
writhing in the essence of the day.

O, but I am tired.