Turmoil, 2016

Is uncomfortable to physically decompose. My body feels what it has always felt, the same weekly walks route or thoughts I hold onto like moss on rocks.

Stale scraps, reinforcing my notions, feeding into my fears and leaving me deprived and wounded. The exterior is not to be blamed but how much can I self-reflect?

I come as pressed as oxygen sacs in bubble wrap. Enough to dismiss everything around as long as I am projecting onto someone.