Drag

New tingz

There is a pull on everything
Initially a gently insistent resistance but swiftly growing into a stern, stalwart demand once you try to fight against it
Sort of like the feeling of trying desperately to run away in a nightmare,
Or fill up a bucket full of holes,
Or watching somebody you love slowly die
Except that that somebody is you and you most certainly don't f*****g love yourself.
Sometimes the drag is so tangible it manifests itself in your internal monologue,
Issuing orders from it's throne within your lack of self-belief
You feel it pulling itself through your limbs, whispering lethargy into your muscles,
Massaging your mind with the notion that motion is pointless,
The lotion applied is much less like an ointment and more like a poison,
A creator of dreams that just seems to destroy them
Saying "Sure, you could achieve great things but I believe you'll just hide inside masturbating instead,
Then assemble another spliff and a rant on how you wish that you were dead
Remaining seated in your bed and expecting it to clear all of the static from your head,
You'll ignore your aching legs, tell yourself you're better for the meds,
While doing nothing to redeem your imploding self-esteem or counteract the ever-present sense of dread"
And that makes sense to a brain that's been worn-in by pain and rejection and strain,
That's been torn into pieces then constructed again
By cowboy builders who did half the job and fucked off with the money of whichever moron decided that you were worth the time,
Time...a resource which you feel constantly short of while simultaneously wasting at a rate that you can't deny,
Because at this point you might as well exist in digital form, your face spends as long buried in a screen or a pillow as it does outside,
It's a bit concerning when spending a day with your friends makes your cheeks hurt from laughing because you're forcing it otherwise,
But the drag always replies;
"This situation is completely fine, you're not losing your mind, just gently falling far behind
As you accept your soul is mine,
I'm always here, you will comply,
Bring back the beer and bloodshot eyes,
Bring back the fear of compromise,
Bring back the lack of tears,
The birth of christ in a shithole in Yorkshire between 8 and 9 in the evening on the 14th of August,
But it turns out you're about as close to a Messiah as a sheep to a walrus
So GIVE UP"

Maybe the drag is right.