#162

We all are barely holding on.
We are all barely holding.

The tiniest, tiniest thread called hope
clung desperately to our pinkies.

We are all blessed with fortune
to be engraved in the moment,
covered in sweat, grit,
and the tiniest bit
of hope and doubt
all mixed together.

We all just want to survive.
Really.
Who doesn't?

But the tiredness just keeps on
letting up—
as if,
as if—
some sort of disease,
a fish bone
that won't—

The same as everyone,
clinging, holding on,
not letting go.

We're all just thorns
in someone else's throat:
you, I, and everyone else.

It's just that
some taste differently,
and that's why
this sort of discomfort
survives.

Let it be.
Hold on.
Live!

Although—

I have this inkling
of naught.

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