Prose and musing by Sam I am.
Writer of cyberpunk, dystopian fiction, and nonfiction. Plus whatever drives me at the time.
Trouble crafts itself around my organs
Clawing on to my heart for dear life
Grafting at the edges.
I should have been gone by now
Or so the thought says
But another denies it. Calls it out for what it is.
When is it over.
When does it begin.
When does the next level start.
There must be a point. Musn’t there?
I mean, if not, then it is all for nothing.
That is too depressing to realise. To accept.
There must be something else.
There must be another way,
But what if there’s not.
What then.
Have I wasted so much of what there is.
Have I given up so early.
I claw on to edges of existence.
I hold on for dear life.
If you can call it that.
No room for complaints.
No room for complacency.
No room for me at the inn.
But there never was.
The road was narrow, and I wasn’t welcome on it.
Not really.
My face didn’t fit, and neither did yours.
That is why we end up circling.
Why we end up spinning.
Freedom is in this knowledge
In the question.
In the right to question.
But freedom comes at a cost.
The knowledge of good and bad.
It means the training wheels have come off.
It means you’re on your own. Like me.
We are on our own together.
But we cross that threshold alone.
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Photo by Renato Danyi:
