The ground was shaky, and you couldn't tell how long the solidness would stay as you walk on its twisted, crooked, uneven path. Sometimes it lasted for several days at its best, and it'd trick you into thinking that it might suffice your little jogs, but as soon as you started running, the surface would vibrate and crumble, down, down, down, until the depth of mud below catches your weight. Your head would still be in the surface, providing just enough air to breathe, but it too, never lasted long. Once you were under, where no light managed to penetrate, nothing could submerge you back up, no amount of kicking would do, and you'd just go deeper, down, down, down, until what once suffocates you become the new normal, and the tight cocoon provides you this faux comfort, taking you further away from the world. Time works funny underwater, it passes slowly, and soon enough you were left behind by the ever moving world above. But it felt enough, and just when you started to think that this could be the start of your forever, the ground shook again, and the pool threw you out like last night's dinner, consumed and wasted and unevenly chewed, in chunks surprising to be alive. The world would look at you with question marks plastered on their faces, full of judgements, and what slipped out of their mouths would be the cliché 'you're not the only one suffering', which makes you wonder, 'such cruel place to live, how do you people cope?' You were left with no choice but to try and catch up, legs heavy and lids half shut, you crawled on your arms and knees, dragging yourself inches by inches to the limitless runway, which finish line has not yet to be seen. Hours turn to days and you finally manage to get on your feet once more, heels in pain against the sharp pebbles. One. Two. Three. Four steps. But hear me out, the ground is fucking shaky, and you couldn't tell how long the solidness would stay as you walk on its twisted, crooked, uneven path.
Oh, to live, waiting for a day to die.
