Some people learn from their mistakes. I be an exception. I hear none pay heed to none. Simply dig my own grave with my own hands putting dust one showel at a time upon myself. It’s a slow death which awaits me, choking, sneezing ( those who know me would know of my allergy to dust) and suffering.
Literature read states pain is what we bestow upon ourself through our own goodwill (well the word good does not seem to fit in, nevertheless) but then i be yet to seize control of my mind. I value the capacity to have emotions, to feel not numb, not turn my heart to stone. Guess while the dust be my covering my heart tries retainment of its normalcy. Be the rebel, hence fight for its survival. For cause I at loss to grasp.
I, digging my own grave yet fail to retain its morbidity. Somehow, it seems it makes sense. Let the idiot dig her own grave, and lie in it!
Let me sleep on my bed of gravel till this heart that rebels succumbs and accords to the signing of treaty of stone.