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December

Sometimes, I just get tired of what I am. Tired of the same words, same syllables that come back to me again and again; blatant, unashamed.The sultry swamp of life drags
me back into the cobwebs of my dilapidated existence.Sometimes, I wish I could disappear from here because this slow putrefaction is hard to bear. The everyday disappointments melancholia, the little things that put me off.  The millions of things I pretend to be.

I search for myself beneath the veneers of the freckle laden flesh that camouflages me. I search for myself amidst the myriad of bodies jostling in a crowd, making noises that encroaches into the mindly solitude and numbs me till I hear the echo of a deathly silence. Sometimes, silence cajoles my body into an irrevocable state of paralysis. I let the feeling sink deep down, deeper until I can
count every breath leaving the lungs and feel every little speck of happiness ebbing away with the chillyDecember wind.

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