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I want to be free, I realized. That is why I long so much for freedom, for release. My chains remind me after every step, at each turn, with every clank and clatter, that I'm imprisoned. My mind and my will cloy and claw at the quickly escaping notion of restitution. I want to be free. I realized that I had to know why, for me to understand me. I hesitated a second and the window closed. Fear stalked and seized me, again I was in the clasp, yet the grasp of those shackles felt like home. The window had been open long enough for me to see who I could be (become), I was fully convinced. I walked that path for minutes and tried on those shoes. They didn't fit, they hurt my toes. Negligent. I took off in another direction, a different path. I was tired. I closed my eyes and rested a little, awhile. It all came rushing back to me. I wanted, no needed to feel it, on my skin. I praised Buddha for letting it happen. I was home. Light.
We peer at the light from the darkness within.
Are we denying the dying all about us, because we have all but decided to forego contemplations in lieu of more open doors? It's an entire community of individuals and collective mindsets that leap off bridges when it's dark and wet, alone while lonely. I see the darkness in my friends' eyes each time they look into mine, a reflection. Pain makes us remember, it's an indelible instruction on the soul. Forged in blood and tears is a lectern, beaming bright, a beacon. They gather, the lone and lost, souls. Ripped and torn. They look to me for comfort, for solace, finding none they turn their backs and weep, forever rejected and alone. It's still not my fault. I write with all honesty tonight. Pain is a choice, a path the mind consciously takes in response to provocations and stimuli. So, we're troubled, we're neglected and we symbolise our Oedipus Complex which, misinterpreted as other things remains hidden in deeds (endeavours). I'm beginning to regret ever writing this. They make me conform, I'm scared to death and I haven't been doing this for long. Give me some space.

Tears offer good cover. Negligence. Meaningful words, intent. Culpability, homicide and molestation. The difference is in the paper. Someone obviously wanted it that way. I pour my heart out. They deem me insane, weak. I create, they feel me trying to connect, to love. It's not enough. They leave me to die. I'm courageous, I'm envious. Don't encourage me. Embalm me, fluid. We're in drabness, we're playing with it and we're busy existing. You know me, you know her but do you know him? No. Call me in the morning, earliest. I have something to tell you. Sitting in faintness, crimson tides. Draw the curtains, tear off the blinds, see. Lines. The lighting was perfect, she sat and drew. Highlighting my imperfections and anatomy, I was smiling. She had to know me and they would see it. They had to see me and she grew to know me. Her body was a work of art. A grandly majestic one at that. Effeminate features broke loose all over my face and I tried to conceal my gracious side. I was caught. Unaware. Tonight we dine. This night I go to bed with you. Unashamed.
Randomest of lucubrations. Feel free. Enjoy.

— The End —