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Vineragy tranquil sickness.
Oh, the sweet movements that direct life, as if the wind and gravity made us dance; I have fallen, but not to the floor with the limits of this corporeal body stopping my soul from continuing its path any lower, but with sickness - what most people do call "falling ill".
The twists and turns of my path never fail to amaze me, yet, I have to admit, having such un-exploitable free time on my hands deeply burdens me. Now I start to profoundly search for an answer to questions that I do not want to be answered, not by a deity, nor by my human mind, yet my personality still wanders to those mental aching places on its own, haha.I ponder, and I wonder, if every visceral artist of words suffers the same consequences as I do, such heavy misfortune and hindrance of mirth inside of their chest, weighting down their vivacity so they do not float too close to the star on our eyes, illuminator of the planet we know, and burnt with its brilliantness.
Despite that, here I am. Alive and consciously hushed, the world is so loud, yet I have faith in its wrongness and believe the pain it might cause me is for the art to be created.
This medicine, a soporific tea who doesn't wish to let me smile into slumber.
I must admit it is quite cloying, but who am I to judge how nectarous medicine can be?
Hoping tomorrow I can sing with glee once again, signing off, Ceibot.
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