Logic/Passion

sitting with one leg over the other, sunk in a sunken sofa with my eyes looking anywhere, i say:

"i feel very old."

and i do. last night i caught my reflection in the train carriage window, and the fluorescent light cast downwards from the ceiling built crevices in my face that weren't there before. as the train gained momentum, the lights from the city passed through my mirror-body and i felt like an old ghost. 

there are two fists around my lungs that pull and squeeze every time i think about the future. the trouble with wanting everything is obvious, but i still want it, and i still demand it from myself. i am not interested in forgoing the trait of perfectionism; i would sooner abandon necessities such as sleep or nourishment, you know. i do not think this is noble or even clever but like i said on that old sofa the other day - "i have lived like this for so long i don't know how to change." 

(and silently, logic wars with passion, my head against my heart)