No end to the [redacted]

There is a feeling inside me to want to be deposed from my current position just so I could step back and start the longstanding rehabilitation of my soul. The setbacks are almost pronounced, even subliminally to an extent, without the need for an outside intervention, but the more I think about addressing it, the more I realise that the fundamental issues raised herein are subcutaneously programmed to eke out of my being and be expunged from the main concern of the argument, which is the person that I am now. No amount of liberal thought processes will cure me of this impediment unless I myself will it to be so, but in order to even cross that threshold I must slowly allow myself the excuse to be absorbed in its aether wholly. I have to let go, horizontally, vertically, in all diagonal angles possible. This is the only way. Love comes in a form of a speck of hope, and in this micro-reality that exists tangentially from my current disposition, it is in my best interest to lose everything I stand for in search for that love unleashable.

The absence of everything has nothing to do with the cure for my wellness, but it is a necessary component to reset. The more I resist, the more I continue to suffer. No one is there to witness such devastation, and thankfully so. When at last I reached the half-life of my existence, the slow deterioration begins to manifest itself and starts to unravel my mind into all these new possibilities, some of which require a modicum of faith. Faith in my isolation, my solitude, and perhaps a sojourn into something new. And this newness will never be the answer to my heartbreak. I will carry it all until at last everything I have accumulated and strived for dissolves into inua.

Thirty five, eighteen more or less, nine more or less, four or five, two or three, and one. Maybe sooner rather than later. It is herewith I welcome my days gone, when I am finally become death, destroyer of a world.