I strip the hours bare,
unclothed of bread, of sweetness,
leaving only the pulse of hunger to keep me company.
The body resists—
it bargains, it pleads—
yet I refuse its theater of need.
What I shed is not only flesh,
but the gravity of years
that pressed me into shapes I did not choose.
Appearance is a fickle mirror,
yet effort—
effort is a blade.
It cuts away the veil,
exposes the raw scaffolding of discipline,
the scaffold on which I rebuild myself.
I do not chase beauty.
I chase silence—
a silence where appetite bends,
where control is sharper than desire.
And when the fast has passed,
I emerge—not lighter only in form,
but steadier in the knowledge
that absence itself
can be a kind of creation.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC
I strip the hours bare,
unclothed of bread, of sweetness,
leaving only the pulse of hunger to keep me company.
The body resists—
it bargains, it pleads—
yet I refuse its theater of need.
What I shed is not only flesh,
but the gravity of years
that pressed me into shapes I did not choose.
Appearance is a fickle mirror,
yet effort—
effort is a blade.
It cuts away the veil,
exposes the raw scaffolding of discipline,
the scaffold on which I rebuild myself.
I do not chase beauty.
I chase silence—
a silence where appetite bends,
where control is sharper than desire.
And when the fast has passed,
I emerge—not lighter only in form,
but steadier in the knowledge
that absence itself
can be a kind of creation.
When discipline howls in spite of urge, the excess withers—clarity reattained.
The burden of craving, the gift of restraint.
I have the will to float, not to sink.
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