Under the weight of the prolonged rests the peaceful disintegration of a name. What is your hope? It is feeling, oozing past reality to where experience suffers spasmodic fits. It is the long and sullen attaining critical mass. (The belief that) with a push from the other side, the anguish disperses and comes relief. Maybe this is where you find it. In the remembering. In the soothing. To mean, to suffer -- sister soldiers of internal discourse. To verily believe the unbelievable.
It's peculiar the way that carrying out can usher in: Burdens. I've seen a swell of burdens carried out the door. Burdens that fill bags-- literally fill bags-- beautiful bags that sat at cross purposes. I saw a beautiful being tote those beautiful bags, swelling with burdens, out my front door. Such a sight and such a sensation.
If you seek relief in the transient balm of your age, you will note the whimsical fury of the present and the thorough disregard of your effort. Contrast, then, the stark and fleeting with the perpetual ease of the will to forge a new meaning in your time, in your space; meaning that will envelope the I in an inimitable way. The goal of any person: the call to reason.
Reward! And opening to majesty through struggle, bitter and blighted. The freedom of sensation! What release from these pangs. When confined and proscribed, I yet burst at the slightest hint of choice.