Fey bound

All is but a paradox it seems. A seething maelstrom of emotion and thought, embedded and juxtaposed in shifting disharmony.

After all, they say Hell is but your life gone wrong, and so it begs the question at what point did i unknowingly die? Because the only hope i ever see only seems to exist so that the fall is all the more severe, the break all the more jagged, and the pain all the more real. To what end do we strive through so much filth and decadence? And how is anyone expected to come through it all intact? It’s an illogical logic, one that is confusing and frustrating and incoherent as it infuses every inch of one’s persona with an insanity it’s own.

I feel lost in this labyrinth that is life, blinded by the experiences as i stagger down it’s passages. And maddeningly, it’s all but a singular facet of the moment, of which there are an abhorrent many. A mere sliver of the ever-changing paradigm, as everything just ebbs and flows into a cacophony of self.