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Pressed for time, pressed for space, pressed up against everyone and everything. The world is spiraling around you, trying to consume you, take your soul, take your life. Telling you to take your life. Die and be consumed, trapped in this box, trapped and pushed in from all sides. Compressed until you no longer recognise who or what you once were. Losing all sense of everything, leaving the normal for the better, the better for the worse.

Posted By ekobor On 09.25.2011 @ 7:40 pm

in and out goes the thread of time, weaving here and there to patch over the holes we wear in ourselves. the hurt and the anguish that we use to erode ourselves, mended as one mends a pair of jeans. How apt it is that the things we use the most are the ones most suited to be called after ourselves.

Posted By ekobor On 08.15.2011 @ 1:41 pm

Looking around, nothing was where I thought it should be. Had’t I just lain my head to the pillow? I had heard my alarm, that much I knew. But I was still hearing it. Where is it? Is that it? The noise seems to be coming from it. A bird? No, it’s metal. A robot then. Where /am/ I? This bed is not mine, it is made of some metal I’ve never seen. Oh, I’ve gotten up and it is disappearing? Why did it do that? Sensors? There? In the wall? If I press, will it come back?

Posted By ekobor On 08.13.2011 @ 9:50 am

Looking around, nothing was where I thought it should be. Had’t I just lain my head to the pillow? I had heard my alarm, that much I knew. But I was still hearing it. Where is it? Is that it? The noise seems to be coming from it. A bird? No, it’s metal. A robot then.

Posted By ekobor On 08.13.2011 @ 9:40 am

Ring ring ring dialing the number had been such a challenge, but now it looked like she wouldn’t answer. With all these new caller ID’s… Maybe she didn’t remember my name. It had been so long. Maybe she had forgotten me. Maybe she remembered and just didn’t want to talk. Either way, I think this was a mistake- “Hello?” Oh god, her voice.

I still love her.

Posted By ekobor On 10.22.2009 @ 6:58 am

The thumbtack was tuck to the wall. Behind it, a picture of you once rested. now only a fragment remains, part torn, part burned, smiling down on me. The picture rests on the floor where I tossed it that night. Your face looks up at me, inquiring. Why did I do this to you, to me.

Posted By ekobor On 01.01.1970 @ 12:00 am