He
wanted this life, this world for academia, accustomed to dysfunction; this need
for proof—of something grand, and ever this chase for letters. He met himself, if but in fractions, to
live a layered life; but where to whisper, the deep infractions, to burden a
professor? There’s energy, to
permeate souls, to float through traffic; where many flourish, to avoid the
break, to wrestle reality. It’s ever our lot, this allotted chaos, a life of
therapy; where the broken one—helps the broken—for a model that touches
perfection. We riddle for rhyme, the swirling of minds, to challenge the
crevices; where ghosts peek, for observant souls, to usher a retreat. To dig—is to find, to frighten the inner
man; where reality bends—a sullen exponential, to multiply in facts; whereby to
see—the improper—pictured in a puzzle.
With keen thoughts, comes rapid trauma—to terrorize a soul; for
something craves, the imperfect life, to challenge the appropriate; whereat an
occupation, a subtle observation, to become a potential sphinx—unto self. He thought to break free, to embark upon a
journey, an inner evaluation; to peer into childhood, to see this thing called wrong, to wrestle the circumference;
whereby to perish, if but to live, to become apprehensive. We ponder more the retreats, protecting a
sensitive self, to know the familiar.
He thought the following: “It couldn’t be me, the author of this pain,
to cycle a repeated life”; where essence churns, to know for onus, the tacit
chills; in which is knowledge, if one would see, the hands of the potter. Healing is a process, assuredly internal,
for one that needs—this healed station, the deeper insights, brave enough to
reach the core.
