balneum Mariae

Of course, I have to pay the price for wanting. It is part of the territory. And suddenly, just like that, the weather manifests itself in its tepid ways. After all the whispers and noise in the background, even now, continue to permeate, it is prudent to just ignore it and allow myself some headspace to simply be me. It is hardly productive to assume that words form easily in mind when the uncertainty of security is at an odds, and it is likely the case that perhaps the best thing to do is to simply let it be. For what it is worth, mayhap a little bit of sunshine in a cold, dreary day is necessary at times to fill the gaps in between. Like those little moments during the commute where one finds themselves a target of sunshine overhead, with the chill filtered out by indoor warmth. Let it cool down and subside.

It is sometimes necessary to also want to wallow the self in propellant anguishing. Suppose it is nature's simple way to counteract the mundane, though, to be perfectly clear, less and more of something is always detrimental to one's health, and it is the same value to this as it is towards the contrary. It may jeopardise the lifespan by digits due to constant bother, but is it not the value of my purpose to constantly seek this bother to fill the void of a hopeful tomorrow? The thing with beauty, assuming one does not carry this burdensome privilege, or it may be that it is invisible only on thy self, is that it never fades away. It simply passes down from an idea to another through some conduit of inexplicable confounds and manifests itself outwardly, both physically and otherwise. This may be due to methodological differences between causality and the right expression of luck, and the invasive repercussions of human endeavours which will continually seek the purpose of wanting. This is the only viable righteous path. The path of wanting. Desire and other such confounds will always exist so long as thought exists, so long as the fear of the depressive spectrum looms from within the background of a metaphysical morgue of the mind.

And through it all I must admit that my latest defeat has put me in a deep state of physical catharsis and emotional undulation. War of hearts and minds, if one wills. At the end of this journey is my want for a long and forgetful sleep. Never to be rediscovered. My story is mine alone, and everything that comes along with it, including this long and banal and farcical note as an ode to self.