I feel I have a grounding in reality, but with roots, one also has limbs and leaves to rustle in the wind, the imagination used to allow you to fly. When you grow, you shed leaves, parts of yourself, memories, childishness, remembered pains, and grow new limbs, leaves, characteristics, maturity.
We are all we allow ourselves to be.
This journal is a reflection of my daily life, and an outlet for my frustrations. Sometimes, I may seem like I'm complaining to an extensive degree, but I'm really trying to throw things out of proportion, and get a giggle from it. It's amazing how silly things are if you attempt to deal with them as that from the first place.
I am drama-free. I refuse to stress out about things I have no need to worry about.
Creation is our downfall. The creation is destruction, the everlasting end. Our gods, our benevolent benefactors, take on malevolence only possible in our own sick minds. Our lives are our deaths, our beginnings our ends, our works pure nothingness, compelled imagination.
We are the byproduct of a dream. Someone else’s nightmare, a creation in the night whose munificence is questionable and whose usefulness is fraught with danger, anger, malice, compassion, wickedness, cruelty, generosity, mischievousness, kindness. Binocular double-edged dual-pathed voyeuristic peering into someone else’s consciousness consummation of the all-powerful, everlasting soul.
But we create because we are obligated by forces nonexistent, illogical, all-consuming. A specter of what it ought to result, but because of the disposition of our very nature and characteristics of our own creation, paled by our deficiencies.
Ruin is the conclusion of those who created the beginning. We are our own end.
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