Dying Slowly on a T-Shirt I Bought Too Late

I die every day. We all do. It's the act of living that is killing us. You are a machine. You have only so many rotations to your turbine or repetitions to your pistons. You are a machine. Full of metal and plasma and pus. Sickly choking toward that inevitable end. Hungry for another mile. Desperate for one more sip of fuel.

Our words tell us. Our faces draw the person. Our clothes pretend to know. Attempt to flaunt and arrogance for which we only feign possession. Alone. Isolated. Drowning in an ocean of people. What air is there for us to breathe? Only our opinions. Our personal choices. That is all we are. Will ever be.

What we love. What we hate. This is what defines us. These are the rudders that steer the drifting vessels that are our lives. In this chaos we call America, all we can do is laugh. Make a joke of it. Because the weight of it is too much. We can't lift. We can't shed or overcome. We can only bend and let it crush us and pretend we find it funny. What other choice do we have. Either way we die slowly. May as well make it count.