There was a time when I knew who I was, when everything seemed so clear to me…there was neither doubt…nor fear…the simple realization of me was downright complete, as it was the conception of this world, the idea of a different interpretation would’ve been disparaged, as it would’ve been any negligible remark, from whoever it would have come. We are the result in a series of transformations, which aftermath turns out to be us, in a manner of speaking; this is what ultimately tells us who we are, at least that is what we endeavor to believe.
Anyways, the mere contact with somebody else can make us change, that’s a fact, and we always acquire certain part and figment of those we commune with, as if a shard of them lives with us, as tangible and lively, some may say this is utterly false, that their personality formed out of the blue, or simply came embedded as instructed by parents, relatives, or related whatchamacallit. Truth be told, this conforms the myriad of the many different facets. It is unbeknown to the majority of people around, but engraved intrinsically in just a handful.
As far as my mind is aware, some part of me died, albeit retaining part of its essence, an essence that still lives on, no matter the obstacles, mishaps or hinders it has to go through. It is then when a novel idea concocted in my mind, made up like great ideas come. Rumor has it, it pops out in the same fathomless manner, uncanny as can be. Thus, I acknowledge the role of it and its momentum, the grandeur of our deeds transcending the very fabric of our existence, shimmering fully-fledged, unabridged as a horse at tip-top, wouldn't find it curious to develop a reluctance towards others. Truth be told, reality is elusive, always bonded to the reason and little to do with our beliefs, we relentlessly try to prevent our own judgment to befriend surrealistic concepts such as life after death, reincarnation, heaven or hell. Quite frankly we are but pawns in a mundane existence.
As far as we are concerned, the futility of life never bothers us, not until we apprehend the significance of living. Even still, the conscience makes great efforts to reach us, oblige us to snap out of it, akin to the appearance of a wraith, befuddling us, yearning to get the very best of ourselves, a quintessential gist being a force to be reckoned with. Once that's left behind, inexorably dwelling on the past and still hanging up to remorse and regret; those feelings came unnoticed, as part of a great debacle, one we give little account of, but it is indeed a wolf in sheep's disguise, attempting to fool us, feigning belligerence towards an enfeebled embodiment of what we believe to be a stable realization construed behind the rationale of self-righteousness and foolish assertions.
There is but one thing we may stumble upon which is capable to outweigh such atrocities, all our misdeeds and malicious actions, the sorrow, the madness, the pain, the suffering, the moaning and distress, the sadness, all-out grievance, envy being on deliberate or not, nauseous thoughts, twisted memories, deeds regarded as impure, sinful, tainted or resembling any form of evil are redeemed.
No one is worthy enough to deem the acts of others as righteous, there's no people as a saintlike or saint to be sacrosanct as to appraise human misdeeds or strengths thereof. Among all series of abhorrences and abominations in this wretched and barren land devoid of the slightest dim of reason and judgment. All of us are to blame for the disparaging and blatant remarks we set upon the woeful individual, or how we torment the innocent, bemoaning and yearning for the heart-warming merciful resolution as a testament of the scarce graceful charity our hearts may still hold. Indeed, the sorrowful and vengeful would find nary truth on such statements, qualifying them as insolent or rather obnoxious. Be that as it will, the masterpiece and oxymoron in the flow of time and space, has been, it is and will always be the very persona behind our very selves.
Rationale acquiesce emotions, permitting the whole gamut of expressions of the inner self; courageous, infamous, willful, not-bounded, renown, perfidious, languid, lustful, supercilious and callous as can be. It is the inner self the one who bears the myriad atrocities, calamities, harbinger of havoc embodying catastrophe and comprising downright malice per se. So to account only to a limited extent the span of this ominously uncanny, flamboyantly hindered and sometimes unbearable force we are compelled and most obliged to satisfy with the utmost delight. Lack of which would inevitably shift balance over an apparent equilibrium, bogus to the mind, but tangible by the most naive of perceptions. Thusly, misdemeanors pass under-covered, overshadowed by the overzealous en mass rejoicing deeply underneath, in lieu of hindering and boycotting the core feelings or depriving savagely basic instincts or lower passions like the inherent desire lurking about the bottom of the heart as gruesome visions of capital sins and despicable terror accomplishing defilement of soul; it blooms, reaches full-fledged state on the fly as a parasite would unleash à la "hell broke loose" in a place we may refer to as haven.
We are but refugees on the wild, helpless pawns dependent of an ever-growing, always-on-the-move, relentless cumulus. So we, relentless in a space-time continuum fearsome to behold, lackluster in nature in the brink of tending to a state of decay and no grandeur whatsoever to be acquaintance of; prone to the moronic misconceptions and marauders roaming through the land, corroding it, being elusive to change and enhancement; groping to venture their ever-dwindling selves in uncertainty being doubt and instability the characters to lay blame on. Even still, the natural order of life follows its course imprisoning the last remnant and reminiscence of willingness. Take rational out of the equation and you end up with an empty vessel indistinguishable from a vassal henceforth, as the carcass remaining, though infused with the essence of life keeps on perishing endlessly, albeit willy nilly. All we can surmise is that emptiness construes indeed that scorned and denied part of us, although we may not befall to a pit of bewilderment or astonishment from the implications regarding this banality of matter. To the very least, acknowledging its ill-conceived tantamount as a token is of the essence. It may not forbear the causality, but not being unbeknown to it warns you beforehand, what elsewise proves to be fatal.
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