Lazy from C-Z

I am bleeding, for no other reason but to bleed. Because the joy we get is rooted deeply on our own individual suffering. When the time finally comes, of tallying and proving feedback and reckoning, all the minute details coalesce into a vichyssoise of abstract being. Of me, in my most fundamental sense. Of who I am in a grand scheme of things. My inua in effect. That being the conscious energy that engulfs you and me both. From the beginning of time relative to which time, and to an end that may never even exist. At least not yet. Whereas history is concrete and absolute, the hereafter is tentative and mercurial.

A silent killer is the intermittent joy of one's false arms around you, toying with your mind, creating expectations and optimistic folly. The voice of the desperate clinging to the remnant of what a multiversal possibility could only potentially show. Sometimes we cling to the hope it would change for us, but for what it is worth, the only outcome truly is the void we leave behind for not trying harder enough.

There is a lot that could be said of a martyr's soul unravelling. Struggle is its basic form of sustenance. It is the delay that keeps their spirits engaged, woven intimately into their mortal coil. The form with which all things sublimate and gives ample purpose and meaning albeit in increments. What little impulse one has will always incline to pursue this one great goal, because a goal is only great when the soul decides upon it and makes it part of itself. Some days are found of wanting, spent on banal productivity to fill the gaps in between. Some days, there is nothing better than wanting for nothing. But some days... Some days are so full of copium one just decides they have had enough.

This onistic frustration stems from an unhealthy obsession of regrets undone by reconciliation. Sometimes there is a desire to hop on to the closest refuge in order to mitigate the sorrow, diving in for a temporary high, not knowing that the consequences may lead to another undesirable outcome, but overall the chances of the original sin ever going away is next to none, constantly chafed by the resilience of nature that persists ever so much. I will always be an avatar of all that is worst of me. My worst being the selfsame nature of that which is best of me. Passion which begets unknown results, often causing downfall to those who have sacrificed all there is in order to attain one particular goal. But I have never known a goal of so much worth that I would dedicate my entire being to. None that deserves that attention because nothing checks out the prerequisites. And as much as I try to label my own value of standards into other people and things and ideas that may commendably be wor

There is no poulticing the wound. The echoes ricochet off my hardened skin. The words proliferate vividly over and over and over again. I could fall to sleep and allow time to decay, but time and time alone is all I have left. The wind outside is howling while I continue to wait for that one hello that will never come. To be burdened still by the shadows of her likeness, that smile, that look. I cannot keep doing this to myself forever, but I will probably be here forever.

To meet me in a state of what and where I was a year ago; downtrodden, heaps of scrap; a reminder of what once was, and yet there was this nagging feeling of hope in the foreground when met with a lovely certain shade of green. It was Ainhoa's grace that kept me afloat. Perhaps I can attribute this frustration with the fact that she bloomed the charred, emptied fields of my day-to-day. That too has long passed. But I cannot want to let go. The seeds had all been laid bare, ready for nurture, prime for consumption even. It is a forever thing. The fragile hopes of frigid tropes and frozen copes. Love has torn me apart again.