Walking a fine line between progress and pretension. Overwrought with self-loathing and losing my mind slowly. The greatest irony: selling happiness in a can. A thirst that I could never quench. Too busy being lost in existential isolation to even notice that people love you and struggle like you do. Defined by my regrets for far too long I bathed in the rust I was built on. Burn it to the ground, construct something new.
What do we have to fear from way up here? How can we see with egos the size of cathedrals? I find the most frightening stories involve no demons, witches, or beasts. Without question, it’s other people. Reality is filled with their horrible deeds and it’s a constant reminder of the monster that’s living in all of us.