Closure

The brightness of the room fills in perfectly. A shaft of shadow leaves a mark on the cushion lying there. A rug made up of warm colors like rust lain with a layer of dust safely marks its' spot in the room. There is a little love in a corner, huddled along the book shelf. A striking smell of ginger-tea gives a hint of awareness that we may not at all times possess.

Thought appears to have appeared out of the caffeine in the tea. A dawn upon the pawn who is willingly walking towards destruction. There is immense action, no pretense. An anticipation of intensity creeps in from the doorway which is closed.

Sudden rushes and adrenalin gushes. Why is there anxiety? There is a feeling of misadventure, unnecessarily accurate.

The beat takes a pacing pitch and the nerve catches on.

The occupation of the past was just a run-away route. The feeling of reality running into the self is rather drowning.

Breaking free by keeping busy. A breath must not be wasted is the deceitful conception.

A machine that runs the load is what the self was being.

Closure scared the self. Yes, it did.

Where is the living and the being?

Pace. Action. Pretense. Insensitivity.

Indulgence in oneself is not what we need.

The cup of ginger-tea is drunken to dregs. Awareness is gulped with guilt so slyly.

Occupation comes back alongside responsibility. They park themselves at the the desk. The room is unlit. A block of light outshines in a corner near the night lamp. The cushion is lying here. The rug has the self on it. It is also now dusted and seemingly clean.

Analysis destroyed the whole.