troubles

Bust my neck up on the wall, my hands up all against it. What can you notice? He hides himself indoors with the boxes, inside with his television, off to the side of his books, seeming to call out to him and his soreness. The objects absorb the sadness like a sponge, he wonders if it’s right of him to burden anyone else with his troubles. If it would be right of him to burden God with them. Where should he put those troubles? What’s the solution? Some say suicide would put an end to all of it. Others say there isn’t one, perhaps that you just solve just a few at a time at best, and learn to live with the rest. I think I agree with that.

Things are to a point where when I say “God” my lips feel foreign. I suppose I have become that distant.