It happens so quickly I wish I could stop it and freeze it for a second like a slow motion camera so I can memorize each and every detail until they’re the very image burned behind my closed eyes because how the fuck can I just never stop? At times the feeling is so overwhelming I feel like if I suspend my fingertip into the air I’m going to touch it, but I’m scared of touching it because knowing it’s tangibly real would break my soul into a million pieces. I want to go into academia just so I can spend all my seconds researching how one becomes so tangled up in an invisible matter that the slightest hint of indifference insults so badly it eludes to madness. I want to be the subject matter expert that lives and breathes their work simply because the alternative is impossible because seriously how can you live with this certainty and not want to roam this planet thrice searching for a final release or even a second of freedom? If only bliss was a store bought item that you could insert into the veins like morphine. I’d choose bliss over and over again until my sore brain physically could not remember what my soul burns for because passion is just fire and fire looks beautiful while consuming everything in its path until there’s only ashes. And there’s no phoenix. No, the ashes stay and coat the foundation of the soil that’ll take hundreds of years to grow organic life again because just like us the earth can scar and aren’t the scars just like the roots of the trees? But guess what, fire comes back and burns them. And this digression doesn’t make sense and I make myself sound repetitive and mad but just think of it as having two ends of a rope that need to be in a knot but are just a tangled mess on the floor and you can’t tie them up no matter how many tries you give it. A pile of intersecting highways and wrong turns where there shouldn’t be any. Left-turning out of this maze and finding a dead end every time.

Every time.

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