an old bridge and her spiders

i’ve always felt like dying is just giving the universe exactly what it wants.

it all feels a bit chaotic, anyways; existing. the mere coincidence that every cell, bits of star dust, all the molecules came together and made this conglomerate of consciousness.

in the ugliest sense, it feels like my existence is just a big middle finger to the galaxy sometimes. by sheer luck the pieces came together against the will of the order and stability that it all craves.

or maybe i’m a bit of a reclusive spider. wrong place, wrong time. hard to reach out for help when you have this feeling. like the single mere existence of asking for help isn’t something i seem to have collected.

maybe i’m part of the old bridge that’s fallen to disrepair. can’t help but hang on to it, it was vital for so long. the rust that falls off feels like a piece of my own.

this sounds like the rambling of a mad man. just not sure what to think, if anything at all. just don’t feel the heat like i used to, or the air so swimmingly through the window sill.

i swear it wasn’t always so heavy.