Great, another fucking metaphor.
Deal with it. Or don't. I sincerely hope nobody still believes that I give a shit.
A flipping mosquito. Buzzing and darting and flitting around my mind. Just barely noticeable, most of the time, Until I notice it. Until it's there. Until it's everything that ever was or is or will be.
Or would have been or could have been or should have been.
People don't get it. I barely get it myself. Almost eight years now, and counting. Always counting.
I changed. Or the universe changed around me. Or I went insane. Or the universe went insane around me, to spite me.
Does it even matter what really happened? Or how? Or why?
Not to me.
Do the ends, maybe not justify, but perhaps neuter, the means?
This fucking mosquito. Sometimes I'm able to sum up the strength to swat at it, but I always miss, and all I manage to do is piss it off. Redouble its efforts to distract and annoy and irritate.
Anyway, I fell.
And this, this is my reward for it all. And my punishment.
I'm not so vain to believe that I'm the first person this has happened to, but I remain optimistically stupid enough to hope that maybe, just maybe, I'm the last.