burnout.

My tears have dried up,
And my breathing is shallow. 
My vision is blurry, 
And my body, bruised. 

My skin is parched, 
And the soles of my feet bleed rivers.

These shards are all that remains of me.
And they're strung; no,
They are tied together rather carelessly. 
They clink every time I take a step forward, 
And disapprove of the winds of change. 

And yet, somehow, everyday, 
The universe tugs at one end of the string,
As though saying, "Come on. Don't stop."
I sigh, and roll my eyes, "Leave me here."
"A little further, there will be light.", it says. 
But we all know, the light at the end of the tunnel has no meaning, 
if the tunnel is an illusion. 

Sometimes, I feel like I am whole.
But then the clouds gather, 
And the breeze matures into roaring wind,
And the skies tear open. 
The thought washes off,
Like dust, off windowpanes. 

And the universe tries, one last time 
To persuade me 
to take part in the tragedy that is life. 
Why, I ask? Why must I romanticise it,
When it detests me? 
"Because life isn't fair.", the universe answers. 
I scoff. 
Now now, 
Was I expecting the creation to be unbiased,
When the creator itself is prejudiced? 

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