Now, Prograde

Death, what more is there to talk about? I haven't died, but I feel like I have. I've moldered in my own closeted madness for so long, spending sometimes more than days stretched across my bed, blackening myself and aiming to destroy the brooding mephitic clouds that always seem to hover about my mind.

In my better moments, I've knocked random objects off tables like a cat (or toddler), and I've bloodied my lips with insincere sincerity.

Above all, it seems, I have swelled my 3rd chakra, having had no more use for my body than a tortoise has for diamonds.

But here I peak out of the sulfur. Here I look down upon my failed reign. Here I look down at you, body — mass of nerves and muscles and tissue and ELECTRICITY and REVOLT — Now I look down and say that I will forgive you, if only you'll please forgive me. We can work together to project out to the world a combo of tenderness, courage, and determination - the only things that matter.

And thank you for trying to trust in my severe tyranny for so long.