I am static, clearing out to form split-second differences between modern art paintings and four year-old's scribbles,

forming into lines representational of a shape
inside the design of the painter's apartments
with colors strewn haphazardly on the walls,
better symbolizing truth than all logical deduction

I hate myself, says the lazy boy who works harder at being crazy than can be possible

as chaos can't order itself enough to work hard, as I understand it

only I understand the real challenge is the hill's top staring at me as it grows, and I realize I am growing muscles thicker than trees that have grown in these grounds for years;

I want to keep working this forge, keep burning on this pyre
Dying as I force rebirth from this fire
Flight or equanimity, I swear I can find the balance
Fight or play dead, running is the best way to build my lungs into machines efficient enough to support this light, flickers not so weak as the world that came before,

A man whose search is not in vain for a permanent light source.