NS and bureaucratic buzzwording makes my head go in funny directions

In another interminable lecture, a dark epiphany coalesces in my mind and squats, inky, black, and brooding. It bleeds and melts and settles, one by one, with the shadows dancing upon the wall of my mind’s cave, indelibly staining everything. I sense myself, and find: a creature grown slowly bitter; a creeping ivy crawls across the spirit, choked off from light and life.

I remember, lit with the fuzzy, golden vagueness that tinges nostalgia, having dreams. Having aspirations, instead of desires. Fulfilling goals instead of needs. Through my fervent daily wish for the workday to end, I glimpse memories of waiting for another day and another chance to chase a glory insignificant enough to be attained.

I have substituted the joy of new days and new climbs for the despondency of routine, and the taste in my mouth is sour. I spit at what I have let myself become. I wish I could bother. Let me eat. Let me sleep. Let me wake and let me wait. Let the waiting be unbearable and the pain intolerable and let me bleed, bled until I am dry and withered and a husk and a pile of ashes, till I look forward to a fiery resurrection.

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