Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Stripped

That's the thing about patience. It can screw you better and harder and longer than any male stripper ever could. Not that it has ever been experienced first hand, and not that you would need to know. But you see, no, you probably don't. You feel it, deeply penetrating your skin, your soul, like a parasite eating and sucking every cell of your body, injecting venom, poisonous, inch by inch, until there is no more space left, until it's all clogged up, and then suddenly, just like that, you feel asphyxiated, breathless. Your flesh, like that of an old man who's been through hell and back, captivates you. You'd think that that's a good thing, that it's finally happening, that the quiet selfless tormented bastard is finally ready to come out. You would think that that's a good thing. Well, it is, until it's not. Until you slowly start to realise that it has always been there for a reason, and just like every other reason ever invented, it doesn't make much sense at all. Until every organ in your body oozes bitter sweet tears, tears that stopped coming out a long time ago, a time when patience was still acceptable, when it was still a virtue, a time when oxygen was not produced in limited editions. Yes, that's the thing about patience. It screws you hard, and time and time again, and for what it's worth, better than you ever thought it could.

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