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The Truth?

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This wretched reality is mine. But I don't want it. I don't deserve it --as shitty as it is. Let someone with the appreciation, strength, and reason enough to handle it have it, should they want it.

I have no use for my reality. Eventually, everyone tires of running the wheel. My mind is tired. My kindness and purity and truth have found more comfort in the wind than in myself. My soul is weak of providing. My heart is ill and sorrowful. I don't believe there is a sanity or a peace. I have acquired such an honestly sour distaste for the way misfortune strikes the most innocent-of-heart with the least merciful of vengeance.

There are long-winded writings to be taken in many-a-roundabout-way. Should this be one of them, exposition has become a metaphor for my life. I, desiring not to find myself in retrospect, find the same situations continually repeating themselves and it has become a bit of a draining opposite power that has tried again and again to take me for all I have. I am the loser, here. I have exhausted all of my options. I fail and watch this force eat me alive. I laugh it off and forget everything. And then, in one sudden rush of memory, it all comes pouring back into my mind. Past regrets, long ago left behind abuses, all of it.

I have no attachment anymore. It's a load of shit and I'm terribly ill of standing in it. Nothing bothers me that should. Nothing excites me that should. Feelings are ultimately acts, anyway? Mostly just attempts at self-preservation and guarding oneself. Well, my "guard" has come down. Self-preservation doesn't look too pretty from here.

The clocks seem to quiet. The breathing slows. There's a crystal tear in the eye of the child. I can't make sense of -any of- it even though I desire to. I will struggle no more forever.
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