the chalice itself had called upon me, and i brought the poison which i had poured for myself, hoping for relief and understanding - to my lips. they ached with unrequited apologies and a curse of madness, there since my first dawn, and dusk.
if only i hadn’t decided to conjure up my doubtful spirit, and its counterparts - riddled with doubt and arrogance, and silent agony - perhaps i wouldn’t be me anymore.
at first, the venom pleased my taste buds, fulfilling my curiosity for those thoughts i’d hidden. some sweetness. some reluctance, but inevitable interest.
if only i’d switched my mind off- and felt truly present and unfazed- when infusing the mixture with all sorts of tempting parts: dark berries and such… perhaps if i hadn’t thought so much, i’d taste the poison as it is. damaging and threatening and darkening as i accommodated my vision towards it… but i’d built a strong idea within myself. fell in love with an idea of the poison, swam in it like nothing mattered. formulated it, dishonest with myself and everyone else. dissociated myself from everything i once knew, just for a taste.
i leapt away from my own values towards the ocean, whose waves understood my undulating self-image.
i write now, in critical condition, having realised: my solutions are all the more powerful, when i pour the problem myself