Would it not have been that a good rest is hard to come by
and simply by living felt like walking through a deluge
It would be that I am nothing more but a plankton in it
and that my one wish, unbeknownst by many,
is to fly just as any pig wishes to do so themselves.
To swim is arduous; to fly would be immaculate.
But truth hits harder than when I hit
a random face with a brick: I am but a fry.
One day it will be I will cease to be,
so will the waves that come crashing down
dragging everything and everyone that came before
along with it. It is nigh impossible for me to give
an ounce of care to anything else especially now
that I wrought this in stone. Only my primal instincts
keep me from completely crumbling down and
caving in, with which I am clearly not proud of.
What is a fry to be when out of its element? Where is
its school and where do lost fries find a new one?
How do they acclimate in newer waters?
If other fries have done a way, why couldn't I?
Truly the worst part of it all would be knowing that this fry
cannot be fully be, cannot rise above its station,
cannot put to realisation all its fears and hopes,
cannot even be saddened by the slights directed in its way,
and even savour the moments of misery and depression.
Things we need to grow and strengthen our roots.
An irony for all ages: we only grow when we begin to wilt.
To suffer, to frown, to collapse under the weight of living,
subdued by an albatross, a creature only as good as its ability
of flight; something a fry could not.
Mayhap I would have partaken should there have been a recipe
for madness, and, could be, for depression,
if this is the only manner with which to integrate and acclimate
myself to the normalcy that everyone else save for me