call it whatever you like.
Weariness hung from their limbs like diaphanous garments now-off a chiseled shoulder carved back into poignancy. The grotesque corpulence of a depression that seeped into their skin and stretched it taught with despair had been drained and its stead was left a new silhoutte akin to purpose- atrophy of the best sort.
There is a profound story in the fatigue that laces you body when it has walked miles in a foreign country simultaneously trolling the miles of foreign thought in your mind. To come home to hours of work after leaving hours. The hours build up on you back and you become certain it no longer buckles under the weight. It never did. It was your heart that bent and twisted and gave away in the face of bleakness. You siphon out the indolence, the weakness, the sadness-twine irony resolve into your every vertebrae. Steely resolve woven into enervation.
To spend a day treading in the placid pool of your hopes and dreams. The undertow-a desire to save all of humanity with a single neuronal synapse-pulls and ebbs with the currents of your desires. You don’t know how to swim, do you? But isn’t it better to tread fearfully in waves of aspiration than to let them feebly lap at your toes from a dessicated shore of anguish?
