The Persistence of Time

Why does part of me always seek the harshest feelings?

Why am I never content when I am at rest?
Peace arrives, but never lingers.
It is as though my mind searches endlessly
For darker paths to follow,
Unable to remain still,
Unable to be calm and content.

A relentless pursuit haunts my sleep
And shadows my waking hours.
I do not want it.
I do not welcome it.
Yet it remains.

I seek comfort in the hunt for things that bring me pleasure,
While some hidden part of me knows
That one day they will be beyond my reach.

So I collect.
I stockpile.
I obsess.
I spend.
I continue the hunt.

Everything is catalogued.
Everything is placed in perfect order.
Everything except me.

I see darkness gathering on the horizon,
And I fear the grey days it may bring.
I am no longer certain
That I possess the strength
To walk that long road back into the light.

I do not want that future,
Yet it feels inevitable.

I resent the persistence of time
And the silent murders it commits.
Time is never held accountable.
It stands before no court
And answers for none of its crimes.

Lifespan, not death itself,
Is the true ticking bomb within the mind.

There is no turning back,
Only a subtle pushing forward
By unseen hands.

Dark days may be coming.
I do not want them.

Yet still they approach.