As I sit here I think of nothing else. Nothing else at all but the one, one and only – or is it lonely? – thought. The thought, the thought, the thought like a plague that starts small and takes you to the grave. The grave of my soul, the grave of my heart, the grave of my life to end it all. End it all at once, but not my life, but not my soul, but not my heart, but that one lonely, only plague-like thought.
The thought of thoughts, the only one. But multiplying until there is none. None other, no others, not many and not few. An image and smile and then all it’s done. Done forever, done for never, done and done and done again. A cycle that never ends. A cycle, a cycle, a bicycle that goes and goes and never gets there.
A never ending story, a never ending cycle of cycles as it repeats and repeats but is never the same and always . . . always the end. The same end, a different story but along came a spider, a story? A cycle? Again and again I go. First, I was blind, then I was naive, and now with my eyes wide open and my heart cracked and broken. For what else can one thought do if it has already taken my heart and my soul? It has taken all, has taken me and myself and my oxidized heart, in pieces and stitched up.
Stitched up heart, a stitched up soul, a stitched up life. A life made up, a life created, a life lived and now pervaded by one little lonely thought, a life so full, a life so lost and a life yet found. Found a life, found a heart, found a smile and there it is. It is a lonely, little thought that kills me slowly and gives me life. The life of hopeless romantics which I am not. The life of . . . of those I don’t want to be, the life, the life I don’t want to live.
And yet, I live, I live beyond this lonely thought. I live as if it does not exist and I push and push until is nearly gone. Forgotten it stays until the end of the day,