Morphing’s in the sky from above have now begun to stir once again just as the way that I had once known them to. But while these fragile moments in many ways feel the same, like a haunting cycle coming around the bend once again – I know deep down inside that things are not the same, nor will they ever be again. In a way I feel cursed, to be latched to this soil in the way that I am now, slowly becoming more and more a part of it – like becoming one with some higher sense of source. For the further and further that my roots expand into the below, the further and further I drift from this reality, onto the next. I find it hard to find the words during these fleeting hours, for even as the rain begins to pour once again, each droplets floods me with memories from the times where I in which thought I was free, times when I felt unbound, unchained, and in a sense – invincible. Times that have somehow begun to manifest their ways into this torn and tattered reality now, bringing rise to this very darkened prime that I now experience.
It’s been whispered that this very blooming that stands before me now, is unlike one that I have ever experienced, and will never come again. Like a full circle of clarity, severing, and withering. For as I reach this new sense of peak, this higher sense of reach leads me to more drifting’s and daydreams, so much so that I now stand completely out of sight and out of mind. Closing my eyes as this evolution rapidly envelops me entirely, flashing violent images of a golden afterlife, teasing fleeting feelings of a violent, yet dying sun behind stained glass windows whilst I seek the last answers that I will ever seek – chasing the last shot of freedom that is said to lie past this closing, yet still open door, indulging in the hunt that offers itself to me. It’s all of some faster type of life, and rightfully so. For I have finally caught glimpse of hidden corners and chambers where what remains of this fear has found a way to flood, and while I work diligently to mend what remains of these cracks and gashes in this foundation, like scarred wrists.
But despite the things that I have gone on about, all drawn out like one lengthy ancient tale – all that truly remains is the fruition of fates and how they will be bestowed. For despite the withering that awaits me, like I have always known it has, like a darker side I have come to embrace – in this moment now, despite it all, I am still alive. For right now, this darkened state of blooming signified all I had always known, and all that will come to be; a monument of the final flame that shall now die out, an altar for all that I had cherished and lost, a highlight reel for all the dreams and memories that were lost to the enveloping void from darker wars, a medal for enduring through the pain during frozen mourning’s, or like a badge of honor for the ability to see how far my own mania shall push up on daisy’s from the grave when this is all said and done. It’s all a testament for coming around, a testament for standing against the test of time, a testament for how this all now consumes me. Vines and thorns like one in the same coarsening my neck like a noose, but even now it does not phase me, for I am now finally becoming the phantom that I was always meant to be bound to, like a sense of purpose fulfilled – despite never fathoming a line like this ever coming to existence. But reality, even as it ends, has never been more strange.
