To and fro till dusk,
Crooked head since the episode commenced.
Betides twice a month never
An alarm to convulse the limbs.
From cleavage to pelvis and pelvis
To feet, bewildered and
Tall like stony skeleton,
Neither inanimate nor alive.
Blue-black contusions each inch,
They thought of a shadow, stigmatized utterly.
Ceiling darkened, an attempt
For security. But gyved until episode ends.
Burn off. Burn off, I will the fog. But it is as stubborn as the Dutch fog. Or maybe my will is as weak as the winter sun. Either way, it doesn’t burn off – Gayle Forman
Umm yeah, pretty much. But am I supposed to inculpate this fucking disorder? Is it in any way linked to my will? I have this feud between ‘I can’t help it’ and ‘It’s all in the head’ from years. For me heart is just overrated, it’s nugatory yet keeping me alive simultaneously. But yeah, I am still fighting with no hope yet I am here writing again after everything, after a reborn with a tiny coup d’oeil of out of reach scintilla, dreaming to catch it. Let’s see if it’s the head, I conjecture I will get it and preserve it someday.