(no subject)
Down in the doldrums barely touches the surface of how I feel. A combination of factors over the week have sunk me to a low which I previously thought had been filled up.
I'm so tired. So very tired. Everything is finally taking its toll on me. Like a credit card bill, it creeps up ever so slowly until the statement comes in and you can finally see everything in full detail along with the price you have to pay. When you get your bill, you realise that it is time to settle your debts, else the mounting interest could kill you, like a slow poison coursing through your veins. Every single pump that your heart makes takes you one step closer to oblivion or bliss.
Sweet blissful sleep is all I crave. To sleep with my mind closed. All channels ranging from emotional to the subconscious, just shuts down for pure unadulterated sleep. Sleep, the season of all nature. The very one act which can cleanse the impurities which add on to the burden our mind, soul and body processes.
Maybe I should stop giving so much, maybe it is time to sit back and live on the generousity of others. Maybe I should not spread myself out too thin. Afterall, I am but one imperfect human, and why should any logical person allow this imperfection to permeate and affect the lives of so many? Tentacles and tentacles, entangled but still attempting to reach out to its maximum length. Large swollen ones, tiny invisible ones, all with the express purpose of stretching to its fullest length, for reasons unbeknownst to all but the entity which spawned them. Sometimes, the entity cannot even fanthom the reason itself as its primordial urges supersede the logic brought about by evolution.
To create as the will desires, one has to imbue a part of itself in the process. Passion is what is used to describe this act. Passion is the cause of many achievments that humankind is capable of, and yet alcolytes subscribing to this eternal sometimes perform acts of depravities to honour its divinance. To be devoid of passion, is to be liveless. No joy in creating, no distinguisable features from the automatons humans use passion to create and improve. My passion is ebbing fast. The outflow of which cannot be stemmed by the mere act of sealing the outlet. Soon there will be no more other than the shell of its previous owner, taking its guise to do what it has been programmed to do.
I'm so tired. So very tired. Everything is finally taking its toll on me. Like a credit card bill, it creeps up ever so slowly until the statement comes in and you can finally see everything in full detail along with the price you have to pay. When you get your bill, you realise that it is time to settle your debts, else the mounting interest could kill you, like a slow poison coursing through your veins. Every single pump that your heart makes takes you one step closer to oblivion or bliss.
Sweet blissful sleep is all I crave. To sleep with my mind closed. All channels ranging from emotional to the subconscious, just shuts down for pure unadulterated sleep. Sleep, the season of all nature. The very one act which can cleanse the impurities which add on to the burden our mind, soul and body processes.
Maybe I should stop giving so much, maybe it is time to sit back and live on the generousity of others. Maybe I should not spread myself out too thin. Afterall, I am but one imperfect human, and why should any logical person allow this imperfection to permeate and affect the lives of so many? Tentacles and tentacles, entangled but still attempting to reach out to its maximum length. Large swollen ones, tiny invisible ones, all with the express purpose of stretching to its fullest length, for reasons unbeknownst to all but the entity which spawned them. Sometimes, the entity cannot even fanthom the reason itself as its primordial urges supersede the logic brought about by evolution.
To create as the will desires, one has to imbue a part of itself in the process. Passion is what is used to describe this act. Passion is the cause of many achievments that humankind is capable of, and yet alcolytes subscribing to this eternal sometimes perform acts of depravities to honour its divinance. To be devoid of passion, is to be liveless. No joy in creating, no distinguisable features from the automatons humans use passion to create and improve. My passion is ebbing fast. The outflow of which cannot be stemmed by the mere act of sealing the outlet. Soon there will be no more other than the shell of its previous owner, taking its guise to do what it has been programmed to do.