I sensed
strength laced in animosity, but not just at us, but at self. how to tell a
soul, something so personal as, “I sense you hate yourself?” it’s serious, all
daftness aside, most have a dark chasm in there.
some
steep sail, as it carries its ship, many have battled the holes at seas.
I was
once an adolescent so concerned with an idea if but clarity on what we
perceive. it sounds vague or uncertain — that a young person would be invested
in thinking correctly … but walls had formed, pain was hungry, while I was soon
captured.
it
becomes a tussle, attempting to discount noticeability, wagered against
typecast ideals.
a
soul will yearn, as for something fabricated, while repudiating actuality.
a
man sounds deeper than his allotment, or richer than his status, or something
one can’t quite bag. it becomes gray interior or fabricated honesty or so much
baggage one is forced to retreat — into silence or aloneness or isolation. a
man ostracizes himself as stolen by independence where many have turned away.
caring is difficult that way. carrying comes with boundaries. one will help
until it’s no longer feasible.
often,
we discount anything, as souls studying our struggle, at art if but some
semblance of control. to learn words have intention, sentences tug in different
directions, or better, paragraphs are meant for stark debate.
three
scholars read Sun Tzu. each agreed at points. but each walked away with
something unique. (it’s usual to condemn wildness. we need order. while we
admire freedoms.)
the
mind is offbeat — we train it forever this life — if correctly, we touch
something peaceful.
nothing
unique in this!
but
we aren’t told something significant. the mind is designed to miscalculate.
while the driver must encourage the mind in different directions.
