No Title Given, found in a notebook with a big star on the front, One bad word

The sun beats on me like a scorned woman. The violent glare forces visions on me, my tongue a squirming carpet, my skin a broken dam. For one moment it's all true, even the contradictions coexist in my brain, but that's just the heat talking. No longer cleansing, the heat threatens to take my soul, but I walk on thinking death may now be worth the exploration. Once I wanted to help the wasting world, now I want to leave no longer fearing the mysteries and fairy tales. No longer pining for a simple truth. And I ponder the question I believe to be my last. How the fuck did I get here?