The Process of Dying.

It's a slow long lethargic good bye that makes the hair on your arm stand up. A coming together of everything in the world you've ever feared. You must take the stairs now, no other option. Elevators are a lofty after thought. The wringing in and out of your intestines that shows up on your face in the ever present "How are you?" Feeling like the bottom is dropping from every moment, not knowing how difficult the next breath will be, a seething darkness that abides so close that there is no chance of shaking it. Maybe. Maybe you would have been better off going comatose. Maybe the hollow point should have bore out more than just your vein, maybe......just maybe. Making the silence numb is not a possibility. It clamors about in self defeating cyclone of what if's, what about's and every scream, every yell that has been not heard for what it was, the fear of you not being loved. On a cellular level, it all combusts on a nuclear level, Area 666 kind of shit. I meant it, I meant that I committed to long haul, I meant it every step of the way. Perhaps you don't. You don't. You haven't. A mirror un-adhered to, is an excruciating thing to have to walk by everyday, so I understand but it does not negate the fact that I drown every minute of every day with an ache that only a Christian could pray away, and I am not so hope evades me, as it should be. What if one day I wake up one day and it's ok? What a tragedy. Stage 4 feels immanent. This is a drowning with an audience and an empty grave that is being filled with all of the unsaid and disabled actions that could have made this paragraph non existent. Slowly being dismembered by an unseen force but seeing it all the time makes for dog days amplified. Hard times baby, hard times.