First Thought…

Sometimes I think talking is a waste of time. What can I say that someone hasn’t said before? Why be an echo, a ringing, in the void of human language? I’m sad, how original. My hearts been broken, we’ve heard that song as far back as the bible.
I’m upset
You say things will be ok
I say thank you
Nothing has changed
Why bother having a dialog we’ve already logged countless time before?
Small talk is repetitively painful, existing is unbearably prolonged. I’d rather avoid eye contact as to avoid more proof of resounding time. So much noise with no emerging meaning. I just want silence. It feels more honest in that it’s not filled with something that
has no point in being held. It’s not reserving room for something that shouldn’t be here, again.

Follow Up Thought

Maybe what I truly believe is a waste of space, is me. Perhaps what seems pointless to hold is all I have to offer. I’m not resourceful of the land I’ve been gifted through the existence I’ve inherited. I think the least I can do is cease to plant repetitive echo’s that only pollute an atmosphere that is already so full of everything and everyone else.

Follow Up Thought

I think I see now that I’m ashamed I have nothing new to say. I’ve become nothing more than all that was. After years of toiling, I still plow seeds of sorrow. In all my time, my roots still reap, “I’m broken”. Only ever expanding the weeds of my inner demons.
I ache that I have yet to produce flowers for the world that has brought me life. In me, nothing yet worthy grows, sprouts, or blooms. I come empty handed but still take so much.

I long for something new, wondering if I’ll ever shed the mockery I make of evolution. Until I resurface with budding bouquets that serve to infuse fresh oxygen into the lungs of time; I will search the soil where I’m planted for something I’ve never seen before:

the harvest of a redemptive story