Eyes brimming with stars create blockades to reality, and so, incapable of seeing inwards, they are left blinded. Perpetual uncertainty, the unwanted mist between earth and sky, is lonely residual. Grey seeping through thin skin; lungs overdosing on smoky perplexity. If to be is to think, they are ready to end being.
It worsens. A lack of concord leaves them heaving despite an abundance of air. Consideration is a retched poison– desperately devoured yet repeatedly resented. Again and again they wonder and ask, yet salvation is sly and evasive. Hoping to be hurt further, for perhaps enough will be a cure for consciousness.
Crawling mist envelopes and reveals. The oppressing is the stable. The middling suppresses solely certainty. Momentary solace is a cruel counterpart, granting only the punishment of comparison.