Internal struggles grapple within,
like two gladiators clinging to the hope that murder and conquest will exalt them.
It's a facade. A ruse.
A clever trick that the mind plays to prop up its multiple concocted scenarios as being arbitrarily opposed.
The truth is there is no opposition, only composition.
And nobody knows what this mind is composed of. Not even the mind itself.
Paradoxical, surely.
The only solace comes from the high.
The pill,
the needle,
the hit,
the bump,
the sunset,
the glowing screen,
the page of written "epiphanies" and mysteries
that make the mind either ooh and ah or simply shut off.
One way or another, the mind finds a way to declare a winner or,
at the very least, a draw-- so that the match may end.
For that's all that it needs. An ending.
About the Creator
NJ Reid
Writing makes those sleepless hours go by faster.
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I’ve been a fiancé for four years and three months. We’ve been together for six and a half years total, and we have a two-month-old son together. I can’t help but think that we’ll never get married. We haven’t even decided on a wedding date. When I bring it up, he tries to escape the room as if he’s late for something more important.
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