On the other hand

It is hard to tell.

Hard to tell nothingness apart from anything.

So powerful its somethingness suffocates.

It makes me want to take infinite showers just because showers provide me a feeling of everlasting peace. For that particular and peculiar moment you are there full self. Thoughts overflow. Then you're washing your hair, smelling the scented shampoo, so good you would probably want to eat it. There comes the thought that coming alive is nothing but a death sentence. And it is somewhat ironic that living is a death sentence. And there is a deal that can't be broken. That exhausts. That drains. It's terrifying to think what will there be when everything is gone. Probably a monster. Which probably I am. And it makes me want to cry and pass through the veil of eternity, but straight to hell I shall go, yeah I shall. Constantly, I am, surely, looking for something to hold on to from inside out, yet again there comes: nothingness. I'm so blind. Though I see blurred images, and they terrify me to death. Death again. It is like a black hole, a void hard to destroy. Belly auto-consuming. 

On the other hand,

it's a life sentence we are talking about. We have a new chance everyday, every time we take a deep breath and air goes in. Infinite possibilities, endless probabilities, indescribable adventurous days waiting to be lived out as the players get ready. So what there's an anchor? Sail anyway. As long as it's floating, it's going. I acknowledge the pain and the environment repeatedly created inside and out. Internal and external. Bricks. Bars. I have the key, but there is so much hay. And there's also fire. I ought to find the key to open it before the fire finds the hay. 

I am the hay,

and I am the fire.

And you are the water. 

You can save me.

But I still can drown.