I thought to confusion. I swayed between states. I gave life, through essence, to participate in pains. It wasn’t right. In all the fixing, get closer to self. The sun in his symbolism, asked about self, the deeply scarred soul. I wonder about you and your therapist. I wonder if the base core represents reality. The Ghost is in us. I despair to know it ached. As the song screams: “Nothing is ever enough.” I was ever skeptical: something to good persons. Let’s say it never churned, it never ruined us, let’s say innocence wasn’t damaged. Let’s just say that. Let’s say a bunch of things. Nonetheless, I wonder how you made it. I wonder if it still feels the same. Are we healing: are we learning how to dissipate intensity? Why is it this way? You can’t wait, and you can’t pause—in answering irrelevant questions. The focus is healing. Ask me about my distorted perspective; said such, because it slingshots intense doubts. Ironic; doubt shows up. And the contradiction is this: something meaningless to souls, means all the world to a few of us. I keep wondering, seeing mannerisms, style, contemplation, to debate in self those distorted notions. How in hell will the autopsy read? I’m getting better. I leave folks to their domains. I try to forget you. I try to not fret over your healing. Such madness in us!
