Post-Apocalyptic
A week, and two days, til Twenty-four. 8,766 cycles of night and day. 1,819 spent in this nightmare. On day 1, I didn't think things would ever be okay. And I was right--they won't be. But it's strange. They're tolerable somehow. One thousand, eight hundred and nineteen. The insanity of it.
Eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty-six is even crazier though. I wonder how many of those days were wasted... Not that it really matters, I guess. What's done is done, and I'm really too complacent to bother much changing. I require external stimuli. Not a voice urging me on, but upheaval. It's the only real motivator I've ever really had the opportunity to experience. Sad, I guess, but true.
I'm complacent, yet unhappy. Strange combination.
I surrender
Shoot me down
No bullet could
Stop me now
Half of a chorus, stuck in my head. Odd. I usually prefer verses.
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