I spend my time waiting for things to happen. I am obstinate, and I paint walls red with fear of change. I eagerly yearn for rapture, yet I am inseparable from my crib. I harness lust for life from pages written by the dead, doing them the courtesy of forgetting all by morning. I commit to a new vehicle of fulfilment with every blink of stinging eyes, with no regard for the sanctity of a blood oath. If the screen goes black, I spit on my reflection after I admire it. I am horrified by the look in my own eyes. Not long ago they were made of death, the pupils nought but pinpricks in a conglomerate sea of awareness-abdication. Now they are promise, and zest, and youth, and confession. I believe there are parts of me that are truly changing. I am waking up inside myself.
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