Incorporeal paper
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anoldstory1344
anoldstory1344Figuring out how to bury a squirrel
Autoplay OFF  •  7 months ago
Why do I give myself praise for my own ability to feel superior? Yet when I cry I refuse myself this.

Incorporeal paper

Why do I give myself praise for my own ability to feel superior?

Yet when I cry I refuse myself this.

Refuse to create that same feeling of self indulgence,

though I do it so easy when others are looking.

Why does the mind withhold its own wants?

Curious that though we ravage ourselves with thoughts of betrayal,

we ourselves inflict that,

why can’t it be held back?

Why do we remember our own inadequacies only to be prevented from rectifying them?

I do not understand it,

though that which is me creates it and deals it to me in recompense.

Is it not purpose?

The purpose of improvement,

though when I seek to improve I myself feel perfect.

Curiouser still that we hold the cure to this and use it on a whim,

but simultaneously when I cry it is held by mine own hand higher than mine own hand can reach.

What does the mind seek if not to gain from this feeling, why will it not share it's secrets? Why will it not tell us why it make us cry?

I feel this now, though I did not earlier and will not later, but God knows I will again.

It had ended so why had mine own mind,

by its own accord,

cause that which it hates?

I am bereft of feeling when I sleep,

this Godforsaken feeling.

Why has my mind awoken when it itself cannot sleep?

for it dreams and so is awake in such a happy world, one that I can picture.

Why does it limit it's return?

Can we not remain forever?

Is the threat of a perpetual nightmare too great?

Something eludes me and yet that me that makes me knows,

why does it not share?

Why do I search?

Why am I forced to?

Does that me have no concept of choice?

Am I, myself, asleep to the meaning I yet hold?

Create a dream without pain, for I will remain forever subconscious and all the better for it.

The mind does not yet crave death,

yet I yearn for it's cousin in totality.

Is it yet too different?

Will I know when I have met him?

Is the answer that my mind is bereft of my knowledge too?

Does it live in it's own dream?

Does it yet write symphonic words on incorporeal paper?

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