The Art of Falling.
The sun rises. You hustle to the point where you are unable to feel your knees. Your knees are grieving and pleading for help. It's elasticity stretched to the limit of deformation. You still proceed to walk with such brisk and grace. You danced your way through your sorrows. Masking from the reality of the real world. What world? You've always felt as if you were fleeting on your own anyway. Even with the million and billion individuals surrounding your confinement, you are unable to embrace in the plurality. Instead, you choose to thrive in singularity. Because it's more comfortable that way, right? You get lost in your translation, over and over again. In a loss for words, your fingers tremble as you hold on to a photograph of someone you love so deeply but never got to tell them. Your tone of voice suddenly lacks coherence and eloquence. Jittering, fraying and dissolving into pure nothingness. The sun falls. The string of tension between wanting to help yourself, and
