An unfilled Caress

Hello World, tis strange to see you again old friend. I wanted to start this post off with an acknowledgment to maker in her most ethereal. We often find ourselves so engrossed in the happenings of day to day living that we often neglect to appreciate what is real. Outside of self what else is there? 

Preparation is absolute but indefinite, so then must one sit by and wait for it all to become terminal?

For what else must we fear aside from fear itself? What more must we want apart from want alone? If one could conquer that which holds them captive, then can they truly experience freedom?

For what is freedom? 

What does it truly yearn for if it could possess yearnings? 

Can one make whole what is perpetually empty?

I find myself often surrounded by the vastness of space and the lapse of time with no escape. Premonitions tell me that the end is neigh, but she is a guest that comes around unaccompanied. The void becomes her, and she becomes that which is without.

Escape can bring with it so much reprieve, that once tasted it becomes starved. I am a traveler, a nomad at heart, one without home. I long to know the wishes of desires. The keys to opening and locks to doors. I cannot be what is without and cannot see what isn't. I hope to wish upon desires. 

Serenity has become that which is broken and ailed by the crippling vines of anger to sedate its bottomless hunger. You cannot desire to such an extent where one ails on broken wing. Too frail with anger that it weathers by the roadside to calamity on a scenic path to destruction. 

I know not what to do to save this damsel from her distress for the knight is delayed by pressures of a far more wicked kind. There can't be resolution unless one foregoes the weathering of both soul and mind to the unforeseen burdens of maturity. Circumstances become the instance where you no longer take in breath to live but rather to sustain that which embodies the vessel for life. Encapsulating as much as it is captivating to wonder about the wanderer that roams these lands a foreigner. 

Where then lies home?

Does it then truly harbor the heart?

Curious, is the mind that dreams away at these thoughts and pained is the heart that longs to truly know its own desires.