however you want to describe it, holding onto toxic nothing is a silhouette of what toxic nothingness is like. I’m getting more certain, things seem abstract and the morsels are lost to the daydream.
Just in case I lose sleep over trauma, I will write a theory.
Multi dimensional efficacies exist and the god Devine are pushing pills down my throat. They fear just as I do. The shapes in the architecture is of no immediate importance. While the old and timely mannerisms speak out loud to the dead and uneasy, few remissions can be given to the bearer of quietude. This is a statue, say the thinker. Actually, its a temple. As the string strands of isolation exist, volition must consider the personal abstract.
With most theories, this one is a morning lecture type. I’ve been on numbing psych meds for years. Becoming one’s true self in the midst of this is weird. Because I tell this story from the protagonist lens, it makes living with something as a label a miracle of adventure to point out the obvious scrutiny and pure heart. Everything I see is a shadow. Suffering is prevalent among the beings who dishonor their honesty.
In a replicated way, I see my version of the Way as yielding enough life like care in the world to honor wellbeing and liberation.
I could really dismiss a lot of stuff these days, but, when would it matter if I didn’t care?