I thought to myself, why might I align myself with any philosophy of man? As they are all so seemingly presumptuous. Yet, I myself am a man. I am not capable of attaining some mastery of occult knowledge gifted by the gods, as I am too flawed to distinguish between divine sincerity and man’s venality. Without verging on fallaciousness, I cannot rationally determine a proper perspective, the ideally hued lens, through which to witness my humanity in its earthly context. I found periods of solidarity distancing myself from my humanity. A heroic endeavor I had not pursued…a rite of passage I had failed. A terrible serenity, an itch to trigger, had kept me from appreciating my un-precarious journey through a meager existence.

I found myself considering, why doth I worry so about failure? When I consider that if I should fail, life shall surely continue, but if it should not, then the misstep is irrelevant to my story. Should life continue I must rectify my deficiencies. Reminisce, resolve, and march ever forward beyond my grieving self. In doing so, striving towards a greater appreciation for my manifestation. To write a more beautiful poetry. To see roses where once were diminishing coals…the rose…a wonderful juxtaposition of beauty and malevolence. A vicious romance, painful and gorgeous, bloody and dark, full of intoxicating black inky bile to write upon the anima with quivering quill. So abused she is…locked away, never spoken of; forgotten.