This time I will not write about it... will not write about it... no.

Balencing on the cusp of a gulp of air and a sigh
This is all coming to a close, this one small chapter
All learned, so much to absorb, so much change, really...?

What is to be said, when one's life becomes a ruin in and of itself. One's surroundings crumble and are forgotten, and the clarity from the view is marred only by the vastness of the expanse all around. Time and life, age and projection, what does this all mean now? These colluding transparencies pressing in in in until room for consciousness is small and angry and quick, too quick to understand or to see clearly.
It rains all around, each drop finds its place harshly, unifying and creating a thing larger than the individual. Larger than the individual.
It all eventually becomes one singular object. All the rain becomes one.
My thoughts are me. I am my thoughts. And I am hurting.
Where to go now? Where to go?