I stand guilty of improvidence, and now I have no money. Fortune runs from me like one I've accosted to implore of her consideration I do not merit. I am, in short, completely broke. . .
Everything around me reflects mortality, the rush of time upon Aeolius's mighty breath. Everything screams death. I move through a world leeched of its vibrancy like a photograph left too long in the sun. Dense boluses of emotion are lodged within me and cannot find egress because of my SRRI-befogged mind, which heeds these boluses' dull throbs but will not respond. I wish I could cry just one more time over my former life; I wish I could feel the heart-rending agony of my divorce just one more time. Then I could remind myself that I am human.
What has fallen away? I find it impossible to say. But I can tell you this: I see descried by projecting tendrils of sadness a future of grainy savor and etiolated hope.
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The illusion of being unravels. Cosmic bankruptcy, the nothingness within paradoxically IS being. Moksha, the substance and the void, the existential duality.
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