IfI wereto writeevery dayfor onehundred days,would my soulbe purged ofthis malaise;is it a thingto be dredged,dragged up –twistedand tiedlike tatteredbed sheetsknottedtogether;is therea remedyfor thisscourge;or is thisan inherentrestlessness,a fiery bluespark of eternalangst ignitingpassion – a callto write? (Originally posted February, 2017. Image my own)
Expectations artificialliving in an urban junglelonging for nature’s calm – time moves too swiftlybarely registerlet alone participate We are guests in our ownexpectation’s dysfunctionlicensed for depression a smorgasbord for abuseintentions mislaid,disappointment unavoidable The ego pretends to be openbut she’s an actress off cueplaying out a sentence – condemned to basicspraying to escapethis dystopian malfunction. (Image […]
This is so true, VJ.
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😘
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Very insightful. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.
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🤗 💕
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The hard truth. (K)
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Yep 🤗
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This is the truth.
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😊❤️
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😍😍😍
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Only riddles to be lived? Beautiful, VJ?
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Seems so. Thanks Wynne
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So true, and acceptance of that is so hard.
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Yes, it is.
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