The Profound Death of Self

Argh.

I know all these things. I profess them at times as well. Change is the only constant. All good things must come to an end. Happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length. But it sinks in, ever so gently yet spares no synapse ... it aches. They say you hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and then you become numb ... what happens when past that? When you've been numb and now are hurting again, and since you were numb you weren't expecting to experience it again. Again and again and again. The bad thorn in your side, it never really went away ... the sun never really did stop beating down on you ... you just passed away for a bit. Such spins the carousel of disdain and defeat.

My defense becomes my rhetoric at times. My innate urge to die beautifully, or kill fearlessly, or breathe masterfully ... feh, it consumes me. The gravity of all around me; of the mere acknowledgment that empathy, sincerity and expectations bring weights me down. Just what is with this insatiable need of everyone around me to win? Every little way, every argument, every kissing game, every show and tell, every drive, every runaround, every engagement, every instance? Carnal. How I lust for a little ignorance so that it may bring a little bliss.
But essentially it always will be: Your redemption, my penance.

My friends were enemies upon stilts with their heads in a cunning cloud?

I feel an era is about to end ... leaving ... never easy eh? It has not *mesh*ed in yet....