I ask myself if or when a turning point will occur, if and when I will wake up and have another revelation that will shake my soul, the kind of revelation that unhinges any sense of comfort and ignites a reckless drive to conquer whatever fear I’ve been hiding behind, masked as a placating security and satisfaction.
When will I wake up again?
How long will I be asleep?
When will it be enough?
Will it go on and on, like a wheel that undulates, that turns over and over, but never rolls to a standstill?
Will I attach to these fictions forever, as a means of getting by, because weakness has wormed its way into my bones and made me fragile?
The only way I make myself hard again is if I break. But at what expense? If others are an extension of me, who must I sacrifice to kill the ego that chains me to myself? How much of myself must I remove to really reinvent a sense of purpose? What is necessary?
I wonder if this will prolong for the rest of my life, this shallow steady state that gets me by, that barely hurts, except by the ache of mediocrity, the dull ache when I compare myself to the masses and convince myself that good is great.
How can I kill this part of me so that I can guarantee rebirth?