Something I wrote to portray how I feel
The dog truly is bound by his canine existence. The dog is bound to chase a stick for he is stuck. As are we, as it turns out. Neither indeed can we help but be, and in that so be carried, precisely in a parabola, stuck as the stick by the air. Its been decided for us all. It's true that wind as well can't be helped, nor the breeze, to be felt by the skin. Nor can the early light be seen with indifference from the gestating sun, decided as it was.
We are thus carried until it sets, until the wind dies.
It is as it is, for most nothing more. The Self dutifully carries along, embroiled and stuck in the wind, light playing dark, joy superseding absence - all the while enduring by nature an externality embodied with its personality. But if its nature is loathsome then all it feels is loathing, all it sees is the loathed. It's thus trapped within a revolving chasm of despair.
"Incapacitation precedes necessarily emancipation" itself assures forlornly.
Lonely and loathing, it has got desperate.
Since itself is once more reminded of the truth by its flow through passing failures.
Since the tenet of time, each tick of the clock and another failure and another tick, comes with it a doggish unearthing of the truth it unfailingly buries:
The war within is forever, without is forever, neither never foregone.
We are thus carried until it sets, unless before we die.
The dog truly is bound by his canine existence. The dog is bound to chase a stick for he is stuck. As are we, as it turns out. Neither indeed can we help but be, and in that so be carried, precisely in a parabola, stuck as the stick by the air. Its been decided for us all. It's true that wind as well can't be helped, nor the breeze, to be felt by the skin. Nor can the early light be seen with indifference from the gestating sun, decided as it was.
We are thus carried until it sets, until the wind dies.
It is as it is, for most nothing more. The Self dutifully carries along, embroiled and stuck in the wind, light playing dark, joy superseding absence - all the while enduring by nature an externality embodied with its personality. But if its nature is loathsome then all it feels is loathing, all it sees is the loathed. It's thus trapped within a revolving chasm of despair.
"Incapacitation precedes necessarily emancipation" itself assures forlornly.
Lonely and loathing, it has got desperate.
Since itself is once more reminded of the truth by its flow through passing failures.
Since the tenet of time, each tick of the clock and another failure and another tick, comes with it a doggish unearthing of the truth it unfailingly buries:
The war within is forever, without is forever, neither never foregone.
We are thus carried until it sets, unless before we die.
