Reader. Writer. Romantic.

Life of a Cockroach

Each day I live
Imagining myself the moth
Thinking I would immolate myself upon that which I love
But it’s not true
It’s never been true
I have always been the cockroach

I think and I overthink
Analyse and overanalyse
So much so
That I forget to enjoy
That I forget the pleasures of life

I have the perfect life
But for what?
I have a flawless future
But for why?

Why prolong this suffering that is life
Why continue to live a pitiful existence
A future is not flawless
Nor a present perfect
Without pleasures and joys
Of each individual moment
Or of the people who matter most

Do not live
To forget
That is not life
But death

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