Odds are we get hurt at some point.

The question is: how will we react,
How will we respond? Will we be
wounded, scarred, will we grow strong?

As long as pain isn't inflicted upon us
then we should be able to forgive, but
were we to malign or neglect the other

it'd be hard to account our intentions
so awry, amiss and astray. Let this never happen to us,
But should it occur let there be wholesome truth
and honest reconciliation, 'cause I reckon
we're in it for the long haul, and I know
we'll do our best, as surely as I know

I have value.
    I am courageous.
    I am worthy of love.​
    I give myself permission to be myself.
    ​I am enough.​​

I care for myself.
    I am mindful.
    I am strong-willed
    I have clear intention.
    I share in the good life with others.

Hone in on those genuine desires.
    Health.
    Prosperity.
    Passion.
    Trust.

Trust in the world.

Why was I so enamored as a young person
by the world I had found in addiction
and everything it encompassed;

The search, the climb
and the view from up high.
It was as a balm to my longing,
A salve to that infinite homesickness.

Why was I so enchanted as a young adult
by the moments we experienced
as companions of substance;

A breeze caught my sails
and I escaped the doldrums
of mundane existence, I knew
"Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow"

When things become difficult
I am not afraid to turn towards the source of pain.
Thus I asked: what is your greatest fear?

Failure is a path to learning.
To err is human.

You can never be abandoned.
Solitude is a blessing.

Damage is the chance we take.
It is the most genuine fear

known to all wounded healers.

I've been feeling that division
between the world of techne (these abstractions
of data) and the world of virtue (those intuitions
and stories). Those more meaningful, self-fashioned
but unscripted, a-textual. These to quantify
what is authentic, original, genuine.

It strikes me as near sacrilegious,
Intention mining,
Sentiment analysis,
Would it disenchant us, and profane
our living narratives. They would strip us of those
vestiges, and even belief: cognitive liberty
is the freedom to believe
in your story,

Some better habits
are written upon
our conscience,

And ketamine;
But you know what they say,
Irony is golden.

The warm, entactogenic transience
of 5-MAPB carried us into 2δ24, thus
we found ourselves in January uttering:

Tempus edax rerum (time devours things).

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
We were told it had no practical use, and thus
our language was devalued, never appreciated
for the gift it was. We learned to oppose it, thus
we assumed a generational grudge, we felt it was
forced upon us, and understood we were powerless.
Thus the pain of his fore-bearers was re-inflicted on us.

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
As an adult I felt The Inheritance of Loss.