Symmetrically insane. There isn't enough space in the world, to give me the room I need to breath. Can't think in this mess. What is it that I am looking for!? A wispy line of forgiveness, it tempts me to the troughs of exsistencelessness. There are no answers there, but it feels so good, to sit inside a suicide. Feeling the weight level off, slinking away calmly like hot sand through outstretched hands.
I would like to say this is a crisis. A breakdown for which, or at least from which something can be saved, but it is not in the moments of distress and agony that the call of the emptiness sings the loudest. For in those moments we are filled, at least, with something. Though a gaping wound bleeds and burns, one is aware that pain is transitory and finite, flesh up against the knowledge that it passes.
It is in the quiet solitude of daily existence – over breakfast, the middle of a gregarious burst of laughter, in a lost passage we weren't really reading – that the real threat pokes through. A strange paradox, more hope in hopelessness, than in this handshake.
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