The Air Within

Sack Saturdays. Strike it off the calender. Delete it from all records. I don’t remember a happy Saturday in my life. Think Saturday and I can only think of one old day that I came home from school to find life in ruins. Think Saturday and I can only think of a friend saying “I don’t need you anymore.” Think Saturday and like today, I can only think of deadlocked roads, scrapes and hurts and insane demands on the soul. And somehow, I always wonder why we remember the bad so well, and forget the good?

Is there a reason why we remember the digested remains of yesterday’s past so well? If life is breath, then the air within me is stale. Rotting on the insides of yesterdays dead. And putrefying on a future that never will be. Lungs decaying with every breath. Fungus swarming every cells. Flies gnawing at the throat. Feasting on the flesh. Loving the odor of the past. And the farting of the future. A reeking smorgasm of suffocation. In this stupefying atmosphere does the past revel. Memories multiply, imposing their laughing hatred of the present. Dreams tussle in a whirlwind of terror. Die. Rapidly. Frighteningly fast as the future rushes out with each breath. Air within. All this air within. To me, it might as well be Air Without. 

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