All the work was done in vein. Now, to calm my former self there is nothing. I fear, now that to save my life in the literal sense is to kill my thinking mind. The me that reels in agony and spite like an injured reptile must be smote forever more. But what is it to be, in the end? The once sharpened killing tool is now dull and weathered ,perhaps unable to pierce even the skin of that old demon. And dull is my new mind. Content and regular to avoid evil, it's been constructed to live without having life. Void of an earthly goal beyond survival, it is wasteful for me to demand justice, feel pride or hold expectations and responsibility. Yet, I feel I must cast away desire, truth and action if for nothing more than a few extra years. Until I impale that slithering, shiny beast I can only wonder what life is...when removed from the shadow of the self. .
