Feeling empty-hollow, that I can not reach a part of me, vulnerable enough that I have burned out the center, the very hope, the belief that a home exists beyond this skin. And simultaneously distrustful-hateful of what is contained in this skin, in this mind.
What if this body
This home this safety this trust
Is a wilting bloom
It is, and the poison of life is that we constantly forget-ignore-fight against our absolute impermanence. We toil away at building solid structures, amassing solid objects, attempting to trick ourselves into security through materialism. From this angle of perception I have just swung to, the mind and body seem the most stable, the most permanent, the most worthy of trust. And as I swing again, mood and mind falling with the wave, into the valley of the wave, I am awestruck at how little i can trust.
The seesaw of self
Stability slips away
Clouds of confidence