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Mondays breed anxiety. When it comes around it means you’re on the fence. The fence. Obligations and procrastination. Still. Putting off things at the forefront of your mind. You don’t write music, but suddenly all you want to do is that. To put this down and call out. But you never make any sense when you do, do you? Nothing does. Mondays invoke fear. It means that the world is flipped. The carpet pulled out from under you so that your knees hit your face. And its all despicable that you feel that way. That you feel like that. That you feel. Emotional bullshit, if you will. Piled up, right where you leave it. Piled because you have to. Leave it. It doesn’t make any sense. Your focus breaks by the second. The retinas of your mind looking past your school books. The worst is happening right there. In the space where you make up alternate realities. Or see them. Focus. American Literature. Emerson. Scholars. Ideas. Words. Structure. The lack thereof. No! And then you decide to change. I’ll be removed this time. Stoic. Limitless. Bulletproof. Jaded. Go inside. Can’t fucking reach you there. Can’t hurt there. Nothing. Mondays remind you of the risks. Seven days to forget before you’re back in it. Reckless. Letting yourself be lucid. Letting little candles burn that could be fires. You could lose everything. Get really hurt. You could die out there. But still. You handle it like a true Capricorn. One on the cusp of Aquarius. Capricious, indeed. Slowly stewing in the routine of always coming back here. Monday. With my books. And my senseless sensibility.


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