The Anger

I’m not even sure if I’m angry or disappointed or led astray or all of it at once with a simultaneity of a thousand roaring stars.

I keep rotating the same events over and over and finding them more of the thing they are, digs at what makes Me me, what makes me happy, and a passive tolerance if I did anything that appeared of value to the Golden Hand that got to take away from me as it pleased.

The stupid thing is, I make the excuses, the excuses I’d never be able to use on myself, for the words most vile, and if I had ever uttered such words devoid of any compassion I fear I may possibly crumble like some dehydrated biome, made of soil grubby and crusty and aching to be stirred!

The Longing had killed me so that it made a belly flip and decided to long for nothing, and that somehow brought forth the most plentiful amount of Love I ever experienced and it was safe and free of tethers and completely encapsulated each other’s shape; even with the scared fawn disposition and the wary stare of paranoia, this was all looking to be, by all accounts, something Real and maybe Rare and many degrees magical…

Now to understand this immense contrast: had I come upon some star struck fate led by divine whatsoever?

Or, is this only by virtue of comparison that I rose so high and the only way is down, like boisterous Icarus who yearned for the Love of the Sun.

As with all things experienced by creatures such as I that are bound by time and space, more sun cycles are the only prophets at play.

In spite of whatever the result may be, good or bad, the good spirit has to keep propagating, and it will never be broken.