I thought to myself that I'd commit my soul to to  and page as a means of self proclaimed hypnotherapy.
Lost in the ebb and flow of a pen that takes flight over the blank canvas, painting the blood and sweat of men and their stories untold. Memories lost to the endless void of time and unexpected occurrences. Chaos has such a propensity to be beautiful, and the most agonizing. Life in itself is a reverberating paradox. We find joy in our lack of knowledge for tomorrow, as well as the most excruciating pains found in our furrowed brows of infinite worry.

In silence, I can hear the drops of blood from a broken heart as it vainly attempts to mask its scars. I carry the heavy weights of those that surround me, whether they are aware of such deeds or not. I sometimes wonder if these souls are capable of understanding my sight of things. How far do my eyes pierce through the darkness of destruction and pain? But alas, I write out of my own damned sorrows.

Even in these moments, she refuses to cease her visits, bringing me a great fire that comforts beyond measure. Her sweet kisses, dipped in honey gold, are the sutures to my open wounds. I do love this woman woman that only I can see. I often wonder if she grows tired of my antics and cyclical thought patterns. It feels so odd. Odd that I am so distant from the world. Maybe I prefer this distance. I have naught to offer in terms of conversation with others. I do find comfort in actually being able to let m y hands fly free over these pages again.