Encore

I live on borrowed time in borrowed space. 

 These words I write are not even mine, in a tongue not even my own. 

 Words borrowed from different places juxtaposed to express my only true possession; my deepest sorrows, this permanent melancholy stained on my hopes, etched into the rims of my happiness.

 My zeal for life drowns in this ocean of despair and I'm left clutching at nothings as all I hold dear drags me down like an anchor into this bottomless abyss.

 Like a chain reaction, I go from thinking about life to Chernobyl in three point its over, and I'm left shaking, sweating in a fetal state as the radiation of fear washes over my core beliefs, mutating them into cancerous values.

 The imp I see constantly on my shoulders at these moments sound more convincing each time as he whispers into my left ear, 
"Don't worry. To every problem there is a final solution".

 It won't be long now. After all, what difference would it make? Who cares? The reverberating sound of silence is my answer. At the bottom of this Pandora's box is my last piece of reassurance; a note with my imp's words. I read it out loud over and over and over again. Yes,to every problem there is a final solution. To every problem there is ... 

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