wallow

Do you believe in the collective unconscious?
It seems like everyone I see is so tired.
So unsatisfied and distraught.
I am emboldened by the ones that pull themselves out.
But it is few and far between.
I want to raise above it, but I am just as tired.
We take it out on each other.
We are dishonest and untrusting.
Imaginary conflicts are created and played out.
I am playing along with them as well.
To sit at a table and eat dinner like we give a fuck about each other.
What a charade.
I am looking for the door.
Maybe it’s a ladder instead.
Maybe it’s just a pit.
Maybe I need a hand to pull myself out of it.
But no no. You just have to do it for yourself.
My arms are too weak and the foot holes keep crumbling.
Covered in mud, I am trapped at the bottom.
I distill some intoxicant out of piss and dead leaves.
This abyss has gotten too deep.
The carpetman’s daughter throws flowers down to me.
Her soft hum is miles away.
Her soft hum sounds like crying distorted echoing soundwaves.
I open my mouth, but I have forgotten to breathe.
Take a deep breath. Feel the fresh air fill my lungs.
Choking on dank rotted flowers, I cough.
There is no room to breathe in this place.
With the walls and the fences and the sideways glances.
The hushed whispers creeping down the shaft of my despair.
So easily forgotten, so alone in the darkness.
I hear him speaking. I miss your voice.
I miss your face. My eyes have turned black.
Sunny days blind me.
There is no need to see in this place.
The rain comes along and a river flows down towards me.
Once pure, now muddied and tainted by dank walls.
Oh wash this away.
The floor keeps cracking. The ground opens up.
I can no longer hear the humming.
The flowers die before they hit my ground.
The river is now just a dribble. I revel in the company of the water.
The voices have grown silent. They have all gone away.
Throw your ladder down to me.