Harpy

I don't think that there is nearly enough satisfaction in my life. Late mornings from late nights never go uninterrupted and deferred to things I don't want to do.

Peace and solace can hardly be found here, where my anger seeps into the blue walls of my room and steeps the air like a tea. It is a closed mouth, sown lips type of anger, where it burns and boils beneath the skin, contained like a source of magical energy, humming and writhing under its binds.

Moods shift only after reading and reading, audible words do nothing anymore to assuage the contempt I am feeling for all. Can such hatred be anything other than a dangerous poison?

What can be done, what should be done?

There is nothing more than what I have said, and yet, there are worlds out there...



Asimov was right.