I sit tormented upon my liars’ chair. It creaks beneath the weight of my burden. Even subtle shifts render cries of uneasiness. What will I do to end the saga, this epic rampart of mental dilemma and disposition? My fractured reflection stares unabated into oblivion, scouring for a salvific redeemer to mitigate my recalcitrant idiosyncrasies, the bad ones of course, and regenerate my fleeting hope of sanity; oh I am insatiable with redundant dialogues that avail distress and disdain upon my mortal flesh. A metaphoric pugilist could beat nothing in or out of my calcified intuition. It is laid hard and impregnable, a Bastion vaulted in autonomy; The Ilian and I are one, a standard elevated above perception and accolades.
Where is my Achilles?Are his feet shod with Zeus’ boots? The problem persists as an incessant adversary cloaked with anointed armor, it is christened with unHoly Water, and it welds a mystical sword that pierces asunder my Dragon scales. Do I continue this death? Do I contest for life? I sit and ponder. I am plundered and transfixed; dead but yet I breathe. Death cannot liberate my anguish, mental expiration will not come…the soul cannot be extinguished. My obsession will exhort and rebuke me for eternity and I am defenseless; I am.
My existence is my bane and my hope is my distrust. Can my heart dwell upon that that cannot be true? Of what nature is my pride, if it is pride at all? I fall without ceasing and yet my pride remains. I wallow in the mire caressed by muddy arms. There is no question now about the state of my soul; encrusted within and without. Consistent reactions imbued upon Pavlov’s responses, my mouth satiates at the thought of solitude.