Bury Me In My Words
I've watched a million versions of inspiration be pummeled by reality. I've nested and nurtured such a beautiful scapegoat for my supposed dignity. But that scapegoat inevitably reveals a self sustaining organism all its own. Never mine. Never yours.
Nothing relieves me more than the ugly truth. My mother is a nest of dreams. She rears me in dignified silence, yet I, the dream junkie, decide her fate.
There were countless times I resented myself for taking the rough path in search of a captivating story. I question if every word I write is just another anchor in the abyss of my own pity. Is seeing it all laid out... is tending to the world's wounds while wounded really doing anyone any favors? Or am I so delusional now that none are the reason why?
I suppose it takes a certain element under pressure to produce diamonds. Though that value can be squandered in the wrong hands. And who's to say at that point that diamond people have any true value at all? In the primal scheme, they are only rocks... made so by condition. Is the truth of this reality that all things are made unique by condition? And is the random placement the best luck we could ever know? Probably so. Merit delusion.
a hard favor
Wonder indubitably upheld
'Phew' said no brain ever
Whip the mind to work
//I plant my seeds of hope deliberately.
Though, uncertainty as a seed can be just as much a curse as it is a blessing. Dreams can be a nightmare when you realize all that they entail. Though that never stops the dreamer from dreaming. (the start of a new entry)