Cathartic release.

I was drowning earlier. One day, I hope to be released from this sickness, this tormenting paralysis of the soul.

The cycle will end, one day. I will command it, in some way or another. But at the moment, I haven’t found an escape, a salve, or any means of assuaging the chaotic mania that seizes my soul.

Patience. The nurturing echo of familiar wisdom that seems just out of reach. Patience. For what? The inevitability waiting me? Of death? Let me die already, so that I may be born again, born anew. Let me baptize in the fire of truth, so that my ego may collapse upon itself, and I may begin the process of reconstruction, and transformation. The vessel is sinking, and I’ve emptied all the good I’ve collected, and carried. The is no destination for me but the bottom of the sea.

Let this chaos wash over, drown me, fill my lungs, mute my desperate cries, blacken all that is left of these fantasizes my feeble fingers clutch. There is nothing left but ruin.

The cycle will end, one day.

Relationships, are hard.

Harder with yourself. The self. The enigma of mind, the unconscious germ, waiting to spring from the murky depths, like a lotus, breach the surface and rise like a Phoenix, and unfold its petals toward the sun, beckoning its light to nurture the radiant mandala of memory, before desiccation and darkness take its place, and the cycle repeats.

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