I find it interesting how the weak think they are in charge. True strength, does not bitch, moan, complain, scream, yell, or revert to name calling when it does not get its way. So, why would the weak ever think they were in charge? A rational-minded person would find it easy to see, they simply are not!
Here is an old quote:
“Being in charge is like being a woman; if you have to tell someone you are, then you are not. “
This quote has so many meanings in today’s world.
If you feel as though you keep hitting a brick wall in life, then there must be some type of reasoning existing behind the wall. Sometimes circumstances exist to protect you, not to hinder your progress moving forward in life. Where does this protection come from? Perhaps a holy guardian angel, also known as an inner daemon? There is no exact threshold in which this knowing can fully be attained. Sometimes there will exist periods within one’s life, which simply needs to be lived through.
The sweet moans of life being birthed. The confusion settles in, as the sweet moans are not so sweet. The moans are the crying screams of thoughts, goals, and aspirations being crushed; one at a time. Life has a curious way of encroaching itself upon you, and upon your very consciousness. Life has a sense of humor only it understands. Ha fucking ha. Cyclical. The silent laughter of pain, torment, and rage. I have gone deaf from the silence.
Suffer to remain alive. A blissful decent through, and into your rotted life of inhumanity. Striving towards carcinogenic thought processes; devouring wholly and wide. Deepening all you have ever thought you have known. One more dip into the death pit. Slipping back inside yourself from underneath. Dying memories submerged underneath and around your feet. The hypnotizing stench of the buried dead you are standing over. A deeper translation; penetrating what you have always wanted to release. The thickening pale stench; permeating profusely through your nostrils. A resistance to the translation; suffocating you from within its putrid depths. These were your own words; your own bleakness manifested. A faint recognition of the bleak origin you were birthed from and into. Every type of death has an origin of recognition. Your face within the constellations of the blackened night sky. Contorting within a black hole; no one else will ever see within your eyes, but they will always get sucked into you through derangement. The midnight death rattles a baby plays with. Movement of the eternal dance through your eye’s origin. A black hole no one will ever see or recognize ever again.
G.G. Kalfas 