A Release

I can’t even be arsed writing this shite. It gives me no enjoyment. None of it does. I can’t be arsed anymore. I fucking wish I was someplace else, a place where I’d be free to do nothing. I just can’t be arsed. I can’t even be arsed going to bed. I should sleep, but I can’t be arsed going to sleep. I’ll say it again. I can’t be arsed. Fuck it all. I’m fuck ugly. Fucking freak. And then along comes results day and with it, my last beacon of hope, extinguished. I just want to be asleep. Drifting, falling. Coming home. Home is where the heart is. It’s not where mine is, though. For mine is missing. It’s some place else. It departed a long time ago. In its place, a shell. A larynx. A voice box. A box of vibrations that are somewhat audible to people, but only when it matters to them.

I want out.

I want to break free.

I want it all.

But I can’t grab it.

It’s a fair distance.

And my arms just don’t quite reach.


You do not pass go.


Pass go, take 200.


You do not pass go.

You do not pass go.

Go straight to jail.

Do not pass go.

Do not collect £200.


~(The first contribution from Contributor A, who wishes to remain anonymous.)


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