Colored Apnea

Bedded and cold. I want to go home.
I can feel what it is like to miss my old blankets
And I want to go back. Nothing in front of me feels worth remembering.
Everything in the past does, but I remember less
And less of it as I get older.

Was it all as terrible as it is now? Was there always less vibrancy?
Is my child’s mind the only kind that was able to sense reliable joy?
I must believe these to be true because I am
Naturally regressing to juvenile traits.
It’s only a matter of time before I suck on a tit like an infant.

I am killing myself for the nobility of a pure mind.
No pain and no suffering.
Inert death welcomed by a blissful fume.
If I cease to have my soul breathe what replaces its mold?
Regardless, I’ll discover it soon enough.

I always knew this to be certain, but I thought there would be more.
That’s why I programmed the long term.
If I had known it was so short, I would have taken
The chance to be more of a fool. At least then I would have more color to forget.