I would ask of God to answer me this, and only this: does the earthly silence that soon lay before me terrify thee?
He would answer in his silence. We fear His Godly pleasures.
How I love my beloved sanctum. My prayer? Taking in the exuberance of possibilities, consuming them, and exuding them as if nothing more than excrement. The melancholy that results offers me comfort, an inevitability I can always turn back to.
Let the aching pains which make my tears quiver — laying on the side of my cheek — overwhelm me. The excuberance of pain releases like an orgasm in and through its grasp of the body.
I collapse to my knees at the thought of my presence being acknowledged, yet there is nothing more than that which I crave. I’m a slave to that which I hate.
I am terrified of my own weakness, my inability to bear the cruelty of existence. However, those who claim intelligence, yet kill themselves; or worse, live with the thought of their greatness in suffering, are those which I fear even more.