Exhausted.

Air, replacing what were

once buttery, aromatic mountains.

Vacant.

My thoughts,

no longer spinning

with thoughts of anticipations.

Empty.

The arctic box,

growing bleak with

anguish,

free from contant food raids.

Lost.

I frantically scavenge

for answers.

My thumbs typing at 

100 mph.

Eyes scanning,

heart beat increasing.

How will I once again

find a replica of perfection,

fill my heart with laughter and sorrow?

I've reached a blackhole-like 

predicament:

No more shows to binge.

It's time to face the fact.

But am I ready to move on?

I have to. 

There's so much to do,

so much to see

away from the menacing

brain washing machine.

I don't need to drown

myself in the lives of 

others.

I don't need to watch

others succeed

while I lounge in a heap.

Get up.

Get out of this trap.

Make your own

Happily Ever After.