everybody takes a left turn eventually

I feel I have to end my life, someway somehow somesoon. I feel my soul maloitering, colingering, away and abandoned in someone else's pasture, and further than that any glance I throw will swiftly wing a-back at me, and turn me then and there into a statue's state of useless, frivolous salt.

(The type of salt that can't be lightly watered down with the garden can.)

They call it gravity's rainbow, reaction's boomerang. No escape, nor even a hope of it, for me. Not even a little bit. Not even ever at all.

I am shown the evidence of my unparticipation. I am ushered to the frontlines of what I seem to lack.

A pair of eyes unshrink at me, and ask what ever was I doing, to be going and shuffling off gone?

Lost opportunity. Opportunity cost. Sunk cost - that's a fallacy.

I have depression, I conclude sadly. You know, the part where you can't get out of bed?

But surely there's a sizable gap between abject laziness and biblical consequences. Surely I've got, as of just here yet, quite a long way down to go.

Isn't the salt more scintillating, though? Isn't it just thrilling to imagine?

That I could die of an affliction so severe, so sudden and ludicrous. That I could be being killed in a way so undeniable, a crime so untryable, totally unfetched in its farness.

Each full sentence of hypocrisy, imagining what and who I could never be, not in aspiration but in expiration; in what I've got to leave behind.

Leave a beautiful corpse, alright, alright, I'll work on it, I'll get to glowing.

I'm on the highway like a slipstream, cars moving sideways without my being conscious of it. You ever think about how changing lanes entails a complete and utter lack of curvature?

So I wait. I'm supposed to wait. I was told to wait. I was told that I'll find my way, and it'll get better.

(I'm mad even to repeat it now.)

But I don't want to wait; I want to wrap it up, and over.

Consecutive rights, and fights and wights, and nobody ever truly stays on the straight and narrow, so what do you do when all the lefts and rights have split away and left you bowling down the middle?

It's the brand of listlessness that endrapes itself all at once, with no canny warning such that you end and begin to doubt that it was ever even there, let alone effective.

Oh. No one left to call? I guess that's how these things happen. I guess I'll be a good old dear and take it as a sign.

There's no one left for me here. The oars have all rotated, or else gotten locked. The very pathway has begun disappearing.

Everyone's turned off already, you see. Everyone's making their earn.