Living is so low...

A spasm of inundation: panic's finest form. Reflecting back brings a certain kind of frustration. Nothing can ever be done to bring it back, the innocence and open wonder of growing up.

In that process of distortion, it's easy to see the fascination with polarity. My emotions have been building and building towards something with finality, but without a ceiling or floodgate, it's endless. Every time I venture close to something, I'm uprooted and thrown into a directionless trance. How can I brace myself for the conclusive impact of my own mind? How many times have I found a catalyst, only to be misled from my own purity, the most important piece of myself?

How many times have I asked myself a question that I couldn't find an answer for, no matter how I tried?