بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ
Time isn't quite changing, need to take a few steps back, forward not going to plan, life just keeps on sine-waving. One of these days I can imagine a situation unafraid to be accepted, ready to be taken under the wing and freed from artificial conventions. Until then, my existence is unending, perpetual in its grip, ceaseless in its opaque complexions. Like
everything else rooted from this earth, every vision I conjure becomes
like vapor without assertion, never condensing but simply burnt away by
the the fires of reality trying to impose its own shape.
---
It only hurts if you give a fuck, only if you care, apathy's the crudest tool in the shed, sometimes the last defense, there to stem the bleeding from what's done already bled. Ironic that the path to Jannah needs a heart willing and open, yet the world crushes only that which isn't closed, how to survive and approach, those Gates so well-guarded by that which kills only in motion-slowly. How many times have I lived and breathed and caught fire to my being, how long will I last as simply me, until my want and need overtake the sense of my mind and seeing, leading me to pay any price or pence to fill these gaping holes inside my chest? My Rabb, in the midst of this storm without wind, take my soul before to this life I've given in, it has no appeal yet I'm deluded into thinking its want is my own, that there's so much here of meaning, but it's all a mirage right alongside the devil and his scheming. There's an exit somewhere here, just can't see the signs, maybe going too fast, crossing the lines, when the future's already in hand, hah, the dreamer's joke is such that there's no end to the chain of his yoke, it extends past the moment he thinks he's won, to the very moment of his death, fooled over and over again, into thinking the sun will always rise, after his moon has already set.
---
It only hurts if you give a fuck, only if you care, apathy's the crudest tool in the shed, sometimes the last defense, there to stem the bleeding from what's done already bled. Ironic that the path to Jannah needs a heart willing and open, yet the world crushes only that which isn't closed, how to survive and approach, those Gates so well-guarded by that which kills only in motion-slowly. How many times have I lived and breathed and caught fire to my being, how long will I last as simply me, until my want and need overtake the sense of my mind and seeing, leading me to pay any price or pence to fill these gaping holes inside my chest? My Rabb, in the midst of this storm without wind, take my soul before to this life I've given in, it has no appeal yet I'm deluded into thinking its want is my own, that there's so much here of meaning, but it's all a mirage right alongside the devil and his scheming. There's an exit somewhere here, just can't see the signs, maybe going too fast, crossing the lines, when the future's already in hand, hah, the dreamer's joke is such that there's no end to the chain of his yoke, it extends past the moment he thinks he's won, to the very moment of his death, fooled over and over again, into thinking the sun will always rise, after his moon has already set.
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