It Is, In Its Not.

It's not a condition we readily accept or acknowledge, but it creeps, it crawls, it draws the hairs upward as we restlessly find ourselves waiting for that nothingness to occur with frivolous exaggeration.

It's not a disease, though we are often put out of ease once the realization infringes the reality that it has suffused itself upon; blankets would be comfortable had they not been worn thin from the tossing, turning, ticking moments as they travel through the oppressive void entrapping time.

It's not death, even with the stiffness of catalyst-like lackings looming without the threats of circumstances venting of the inexactitude of existing in the pure absence of action: dust settling at increasingly slow speeds, ribbons dance in the subtle breeze falling from air vents in cold wafts like the fingers of the crow, heat ensared by the candle's jar won't emanate into the room as the flame dances no more than two centimeters in all directions from its perfectly statuesque spear-like body; eternal slumber would be but little different to its truth, save the general death of not living.

It is, in its not.