Post #8
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ㅤ ▸ By Leaps And Bounds.
ㅤ “I exited without regarding that path,
ㅤ I was empty with all my thoughts
ㅤ lost somewhere. It didn't feel real,
ㅤ though the bitterness abided.”
• ㅤ• ㅤ•ㅤ 🀣ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ[..UFS..]
I, merge with the silent darkness like two old friends who finally reunite. Disregarding the quietude, I meld an accord with its essence. The distinction of space presents an obstacle, yet I maintain my hold steadfastly: with hopes afloat, chart a novel course derived from @eratic's branch, clutching the reigns and steering my own course. With the clues provided by @ayssistbot, I am taking a new–determined path. Rage, madness, grief, sorrow, anguish, misery, wrath, distress, mourn, loss, all run into one another, leaving me a hollow shell. Are they not all one in the same? or is there some subtle distinction between their pain-fraught forms that I have failed to grasp? Why do I expend so much energy dissecting the fine print, when the end result remains the same; perpetual heartache. They're as a tangled web of emotions, mixing together so much that even the feelings within my heart has vanished, making it impossible to distinguish between what's real and what's not. Sobs no longer soothe me, guilt drained my tears, and I'm anxious—frantic in the murk.
ㅤ “I exited without regarding that path,
ㅤ I was empty with all my thoughts
ㅤ lost somewhere. It didn't feel real,
ㅤ though the bitterness abided.”
• ㅤ• ㅤ•ㅤ 🀣ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ[..UFS..]
I, merge with the silent darkness like two old friends who finally reunite. Disregarding the quietude, I meld an accord with its essence. The distinction of space presents an obstacle, yet I maintain my hold steadfastly: with hopes afloat, chart a novel course derived from @eratic's branch, clutching the reigns and steering my own course. With the clues provided by @ayssistbot, I am taking a new–determined path. Rage, madness, grief, sorrow, anguish, misery, wrath, distress, mourn, loss, all run into one another, leaving me a hollow shell. Are they not all one in the same? or is there some subtle distinction between their pain-fraught forms that I have failed to grasp? Why do I expend so much energy dissecting the fine print, when the end result remains the same; perpetual heartache. They're as a tangled web of emotions, mixing together so much that even the feelings within my heart has vanished, making it impossible to distinguish between what's real and what's not. Sobs no longer soothe me, guilt drained my tears, and I'm anxious—frantic in the murk.
Adieu, delight. We may not reunite again.
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