Hole

It is this dark metaphor I crawl deep inside when the world is too much to breathe.There is no race to when I leave, no hare or tortoise running or slugging beside or past me. I only see a light when I talk my way out of the pathetic gloom I have fell into.Sometimes I tiptoe into this hole, other times a vacuum swallows me and spins me in all the pity-dust I left from before. People say and write not to live in the past, it is easier to write the truth than to apply it. Especially when every dream creates it again and again. If I don't dream, I die right?
What if this pit of memories doesn't let me out one day? Will this make me insane? All my positivity I dispurse to my fellow surroundings is all I want to believe, yet I feel it is escaping me.