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By C.J.

These are the words of a drifting mind. My pride, my pain, my ever distant muse of fortune. Through the sear of regret a fragment has fallen from the mirror of my soul. The true visage within, monstrous. It seems cruel to be such a self-loathing creature. An unfathomable entity bequeathing such sorrow to ultimately adorn a smile. A curious curse to appear fulfilled but choked with sadness within your very essence. If the path to Hell is paved by good intentions then I've laid my own stones.

Inner exile has become my temple of self-reflection, my redemption. Perhaps frivolously hopeful that forgiveness may release my agony. I have found that the most painful thing in life is not to suffer from another. But becoming the source of such pain. Having to peer into the eyes of a pierced adored one shatters any illusion of altruism.

So long I have gazed into the horizon, erecting towers of ambition with my imagination. "Fine goals" one might say in a moment of encouragement; watching the glow in your eye twinkle with the exciting prospect. I found it so easy

to thrive on potential alone. Perhaps my greatest defence against my worst fears. Lately my mind's eyes have turned inward, prompted to inspect the chilling shade of my spirit. Why have I come to this place? Seems to confound everything that I've convinced all others I stand for. Possibly I'm driven by fear? That I've lost the comfort of assuming that I'm a good person? The void stares back, ever so silent and still.

It is a maddening thing, being locked with your sin while time whisks by. The spheres, in all of their social glamour, clamouring to remind you of jovial heat. How can you share a kiss when your lips have gone cold? When your oral spatter tastes like venom? The glacial grip of one's own pitch silhouette echoes the deafening silence of isolation. A concerned hand reaches out yet I refuse to take it for fear of causing even more pain. That somehow betrayal will be my name. Oh how I do desire ignorance of my moral scorch.

Truth is that sitting on the ledge of existentialism has its own peculiar advantage. From the high overlook of life's valley you can witness your passion winding like a river. The race of the flow, roar of the rapids, force of the bends, and the quiet ripple of gentle springs. The depth can be deceiving as the surface reflects hopeful fiction and the accepted projections of others. What use is there for the cloaked ramblings of an obsidian conscience? That each pang may shape an upward rung? Ah the ever persistent gospel of optimism. Inevitable is the numbing of time...often confused as healing; the slow erosion of memory's darkest murals.


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