What makes a person keep going when there doesn't seem to be any promise of an ending to struggling? I need to find that 'what' and keep it in my pocket. Or perhaps convince myself that any old thing contains this elusive reason for striving, pushing, persisting?

Life seems empty to me. I could get up and go to work tomorrow, but what is accomplished? Money is earned. Bills are paid. Existence sustained. Living is dull and monotonous and there is no real love among people. Love for blood shared. Love for time given. Love for image presented. Love for the sake of who is watching. Love for the sake of who is listening. Love who is chosen. Love who appears good. Love who fits criteria. And it never ends.

Nothing is real. Do we ever actually scream? There has to be other people who feel this prison, this trapped existence. Why is everyone a politician? I think I will never see anything more than a silk bloom, a plastic stem, among the living. Such deceptive replications of humanity we all are. Pod people, the living dead.