on my own way

Falling asleep on the verge of exhaustion and self-confidence, it's as if your body is still here, but your consciousness is already rising somewhere above the ceiling. Everything sticks: memories, the smell of cheap smoke, the shadow from the curtains, and the proud "I can handle it myself." At the bottom of this apathy, it's strangely cosy, like an old t-shirt that should have been thrown away long ago, but you just can't bring yourself to do it. Each line sounds like an attempt not to drown in one's own irony. It's kind of funny and painful at the same time, like the laughter that bursts out when you have no strength left to be angry. And amidst all of this, a quiet, stubborn forward movement. Without pathos, without salvation. Just your own path, whatever it may look like.