I could use comfort right now. But I would officially be deemed a crybaby if I would insist on that. With the current volume of space that I occupy, and the increasing number of strands of wisdom that I have, being tagged a crybaby would be the most immature of all acts.
I am in anguish. Perhaps the most painful part of dreaming a dream and visualizing it into realization is the fact that everything could still utterly go wrong despite the realization being a short step away. At the moment, it feels like sorrowful mysteries come alive.
I am bleeding. I am sore. I am spent. And through all these, I find it so odd to beam with pride over having been poked through every possible opening in my human body. I have never felt so defenseless in my life. What, with the consent that I have awarded to pokers, they could remain as focused and intent on poking even if hell breaks loose.
Taking in precious air for basic life support is made more challenging by outflows from the windows to the soul. Contrived, or not, they offer that exhilarating release from the captivity set about by disappointment, depression, denial, and even self-destruction.
Perhaps, days are numbered, and today is assigned to be commemorated under the mysteries of the sorrowful. And now I have to force myself to sleep peacefully amidst the enduring discomfort reminiscent of the sickness that was.
Do not let your minder wander too much. Take things as they are, or leave them.
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