Contemplation, aspiration, and inspiration violently react amongst the inner seclusion of my own precious claim to that which is space and that which is time. All three never seem to rest or resist the actions of the other. Constantly I struggle. Constantly they pry. Once again, I am lost in my own self-being.
Life trickles forth from the faucet of time, feeding me steadily, promoting the mystifying altercations of the realm within. There, the pain of exhaustion is a familiar acquaintance, the ripples amongst it’s face, the smell of it’s protruding edges of glass that rip into my world, tearing it into stray. The lashes from its whips dissolve into the stricken flesh, allowing for the repetitive blows to be just as excruciating as each one’s predecessor. Concentration conceals the anguish of such a tortured soul. Mediation presents the façade, behold.
Ever intuitive, highly evolved, substantially intelligent, physically in charge, mentally sound, these are the personal properties that make dave go round.
Each day I struggle to struggle once more. Please forgive for what I do and do not deplore.
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