This is my vicious cycle. Awakening to the noises of the streets and the assault of light, as drowsy as I can be, with only so little sleep. The day cannot commence prior to coffee [n]or cigarettes. The addiction is suffocating, yet the only thing keeping me afloat. To progress throughout the day with such melancholy, only so little can be endured. The dawn of the day is only a consequence of the dusk. As only then does the tension heighten for the oak to bear its fruits. To rise as an acorn, too much time is required. For all as winter comes, the tree must become dormant, but prior to such, the tree will stand bare and silent, its branches reaching into the cold, a stark reminder of lost vitality awaiting the gentle touch of spring’s renewal; a spring that is ever so brief. A spring in which one sleeps.
I am being a bit overly dramatic today.