I've had some tiring few days in a row, the kind that would have you believe opening a stubborn jar of jam is life expecting more emotional strength than you've got. And I can't say it isn't true, because I'm still very deep in the forest of such tight-lidded bottles.
I'll go hungry, I think, rather than open that cocky piece of...
But I know my anger runs deeper than appetite.
You see, I haven't been speaking to life.
If I really think about it, I've got a pretty tight lid on myself too. I've painted the outside, proclaiming sweet flavours you'd like to know. Just so I can sit on this shelf. Be back in the business.
But, and this is for your own sake, I stubbornly keep the lid on.
When I was younger, I read a book I should not have been reading. It spoke of emotions mixing into the recipe. It described the devourer's agony and ecstasy, transferred through the contents of an innocent enough meal but one prepared in the midst of a particular affliction.
Now I'm afraid of these ingredients. Of the conditions they were mixed in. I cannot name plainly what's inside; they would be useless nouns missing secret adjectives you couldn't fathom unless you'd been there, partaking in their brewing.
I suppose life has become the meal I would like to have lived with those who made it what it is.
There is a banquet in front of me, and it is untouched whilst I sit alone. And I see the stares and I hear the whispers: what a waste, and what a shame.
But I have simply lost my appetite.
I'll go hungry, I think, rather than open that cocky piece of...
But I know my anger runs deeper than appetite.
You see, I haven't been speaking to life.
If I really think about it, I've got a pretty tight lid on myself too. I've painted the outside, proclaiming sweet flavours you'd like to know. Just so I can sit on this shelf. Be back in the business.
But, and this is for your own sake, I stubbornly keep the lid on.
When I was younger, I read a book I should not have been reading. It spoke of emotions mixing into the recipe. It described the devourer's agony and ecstasy, transferred through the contents of an innocent enough meal but one prepared in the midst of a particular affliction.
Now I'm afraid of these ingredients. Of the conditions they were mixed in. I cannot name plainly what's inside; they would be useless nouns missing secret adjectives you couldn't fathom unless you'd been there, partaking in their brewing.
I suppose life has become the meal I would like to have lived with those who made it what it is.
There is a banquet in front of me, and it is untouched whilst I sit alone. And I see the stares and I hear the whispers: what a waste, and what a shame.
But I have simply lost my appetite.
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