Ain’t saying it ain’t happening. But today is another failed day. A failure in that I didn’t get to talk to The One. I really shouldn’t be name it The One. But here I am doing that. Failed love is weird because you know it’s all mental. And the frenzy feeding to gain acceptable theories about the direction of the love and the whatabouts are intense. It takes guts to shake all thought misdirecting, return to the now unscathed by the emotional carnage that takes place in a pool full of piranhas, hungry ready to rip your soul apart. Your own private piranha pool carefully chosen one by one for the sole purpose of self scarring, your own babies eating the very wiring that makes up your brain, making you want to make this decision or the other. Tormented by spirits of a rapture that no one speaks of. In a straightjacket, holding back every desire to do as we think.
Sometimes you know you are going to be tormented. Like the fire of eternity, you willingly accept the dire issue. Not because it’s right. Fate is not about right or wrong but about bringing forth the will. The glory lies in coming out of the boiling pain unscathed.
The thing that has been that every nook & cranny in this ethos is being fed superadultered hope. Hormone laced hope.
Some people struggle with flesh issues. This grey matter deals in the enclosures of the brain. Where torture rooms exist in every wiring. Why? Don’t ask. Yes, it’s almost embarrasing to admit it. Restless and passive. Nice combo Big Guy up there!