It smells like November on the cusp of summer.

I know the cool days will be gone soon

It's a sign of change

An omen, warning me that this is the last of the good days.

I'll sweat away my moments, sleeping away the days

I'm returning home, and that's just a fancy way to say I'm regressing.

Production diminishes,

Motivation fluctuates dangerously in the span of two hours.

I can only maintain the minimum for so long.

Three months of hell

Struggling to get by is worse when it's been easy before.

 

Look at me, freaking out over speculation

Putting on a show for an audience that may never show

If I pour out now, I'll have nothing left when it happens.

These are not emotions

It's instinct.

Every time I relax, my mind reminds me that I'm wasting.

If I'm not on a treadmill, I'm losing the day

Idle hands are the work of neurotic devils; it's hard to know idle peace

But it could happen for me

 

Anxiety or depression

Maybe depressive anxiety

I like to sit in the dark because the world moves away from me

You can't see devils in the dark and it's easy to lose conscious

I need praise to know that I'm not wasting away,

I'm keeping them at bay

I joke about poison two swallows in

At least it has effects I can feel,

I'm moving somewhere

At least I see a direction

Bright, beautiful light