I cannot use force against my pain without killing that which allows me to endure it.
I feel abandoned on a visceral level
My existence unmet on the levels beyond thought and words
My emotions left unanswered, unacknowledged
The emergence of an instinct to grab on to something, an anchor in the physical world to remind myself that I’m actually living
That I’m not the phantom I feel myself to be
My existence is vague, like it might as well have not been
A faint line
I feel a deep resentment towards life. I wasn’t received when I needed it the most, and now I don’t need it anymore.
The mundanity of this moment taste metallic.
The grey treetops stripped naked by the cold stretch out like scarecrows, like swaying cemeteries. The wind circling around them seems bereft and in disbelief as if in denial, like a mother clinging on to her child who just breathed his last, rocking back and forth with him in her embrace.
The scariest part of life is that life is independent of will. Spring doesn’t rush to protect nature from the cold because the cold is also nature… Ironically, for spring to interrupt the shedding of life would be to interrupt life itself. So I guess in that regard death is creation. Life wouldn’t be life without unexpected endings.
Expectations are human creations. It rings hollow and shallow because every time it approaches the depths it’s yanked back by the leash of control.
Feel all of your Self all of the time without trying to make the stream run into the ocean of your mind
Stop trying to control, confine, retain, manage, analyze, postpone, protect, mitigate, quarantine what flows through each moment for the first time ever in the existence of everything
You’re expending your all holding back an inevitable tide from coming in
Meanwhile you’re dying to be cooled, to be washed over with the new, to be swept away
You’re dying for the very thing you’re fighting.
Scrolling through timelines aimlessly. Alternating between apps and websites endlessly. Drifting around like in a car in an empty parking lot at night, circulating the same block until it’s safe to feel again. Dissociating is like hiding under the bed from the monster that is sleeping in your bed. It should be the other way around but I’m always the one punished for the terror that drifts through me aimlessly like a heavy fog that closes in unannounced.