17/02/2020
Quite often,
either joking or desperate,
I wish more and more I could shoot my mind here and now
for maiming me,
my spontaneity
and all my dignity.
Whenever it brings me to a crisis
– condemns my passions,
rebellion,
astrality,
joyful freedom,
innocence,
love,
irrationality
and “thoughtset”
– every place I come to sit,
stand
or just be at,
becomes tainted,
isolating,
with miasma for air
and like an eternally prolonging waiting room.
Waiting for what?
Probably redemption seeming out of reach at such moment
Whilst amid the dark matters.
Mostly sure that’s how Catholic purgatory would be like:
****** depression,
no God,
copper taste in the soul,
tight space,
condemnation,
tower of pressure,
no greatness to behold,
no hope for another day to come.