It was then that she realised. The state in which where nothing mattered to her anymore. The internal bliss of liberation, where her next move would be unpredictable. All be it, elegant and swooning, it was a mask of deception held within the fractures of her soul. The soul which had turned so black it no longer thrived off of the love in the external world, and neither the fruit of success in the material of her life. No, her void was the impurity of mind. Her void had held back, far away from the breakthrough she longed for.
The skin on her hands was bent, distorted from the hatred she had consumed, the slithers of green and blue fusions protruded in small meandering streams amongst the lakes of black. The black that had been infused into the habitat by the sheer disposition of her mindset. She was left in the placenta of her own suffering, held inside – just like a newly born child. Except, her youthfulness had been expelled for a persona of coldness. Perhaps, in another life, the light would have found its way but as far as she knew, the one she was living in the present held the paradoxical version of optimism. Optimism in which the blackness of her deviate self would come to peace, leaving an ash which burned out the fire of those able to reach it.
She had finally seen, seen what she had always seen, what had always been right before her eyes. She had ignored it, just accepted that it would be okay, it wouldn’t matter because she was more than the insignificance of it. But, of course she had screened out the lies, the deception of it. It was just another poison no one could escape. Well, she had to eliminate it, the first step to cleaning the black in her veins.
And so, she writes, sits, and writes, in the scarcity of it all. It may be the reason she dies a peaceful death, or, in vain. She has not much to accomplish being the small speck in the statistic of suffering. It was raised to much more an exponential amount, so great, her whitened soul could not replenish the hearts of the harassed. Harassed by the cage of injustice, beaten with the feathers of wrath, scarred with the fire of greed and, gouged with the pikes of silence. But what had they known except it? They lived day-to-day, the black in her life was what oozed their homes, trees, and soil. All she hoped for, was the humility in their eyes, the softness in their dilated pupils drooling with the tears of blood to be left unscathed in the torment of their breathing. Much like hers.
It then hits her, how far she is from being able to handle the black in her own sewage, let alone drain the pipes of the hopeless web she lived in. The clock had ticked much passed the time she would have liked to cocoon herself; it was at the cost of consuming. Consuming in the robotic way they expected her to. This time, the consumption wasn’t wasted. It led her here, where she was right now, the shaft she had satisfied by consuming was now filled with colour, mechanisms which twitched in the robotic way which made her tic, her own little way of honing in her insatiable desires into a small box which could be filled with the wisdom she had collected. It had only begun just now, although she had made several promises to start countless amounts of time, she had truly left them all behind. She was going to replace the hundreds of gashes with a million plasters and eternal battle scars. That is what made a difference between a novice and a master after all; she knew, the master had failed much more times than the novice had even tried.
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