It becomes a habit.
As though habits are what makes one.
To have it done out of habit.
Is habit contentment or confinement?
I habitually strangle my inner self by succumbing to the habits of a lifetime, defined by others.
I am a creature, yet habit is what irks. It is not virtuous, this world of habit. This necessity of action and thought that closes the walls, shuts the doors, blocks the light from my eyes, the wind from cheek, breath from chest, terror from mind.
Aye, habit, thou cruel and formless thing, stealthily approaching to steal away my life, contort my mind. Thou makest me, and at the same time shears me asunder. I am your victim, your lover. I genuflect before you. The weight of you is inconceivable. I have no other before me. It is you at my side, in my shadow.
Off of me. I beg. I command. Leave go the weight that drowns what little time is left, carelessly relegating my soul into meaningless perpetuity. Leave the mortal drown in her own demise, not yours, not others.
What say you?
My thoughts, whose are they?
Contrived and bitter, lost years and desires, eaten by habit into emptiness. Turn round, and by habit I am content, even happy, in the small accomplishments of my life.
But these are walls I never scale, that block the world beyond. Repetitive actions. I accomplish the same thing, over, and over, and over, and am content that this one thing, this least of all actions, has been done, and my happiness from it is all that is needed.
It is but a screen.
A tactic to hold me back.
A habit that keeps me safe from exposure.
Exposed from what? From whom?
From myself, of course.
Without it I might succeed or diminish, but I would be me. I am neither.
And so I write to tell you, to warn you,
There is no time left
We are close to death