Ideas of self-worth and Melozzo da Forli’s Angelo Musicante leaning against a Victorian magic carpet like Mellon Collie in a star vessel traversing a sea of Infinite Sadness.
Resonation with the divinities of always and a life boat.
Philosophizing made up words to describe details of perception like a feral child captive in Avalonia.
Is healing self-mutilation worth a question?
How to escape the mechanism of escaping?
Who do I want my adult self to be?
Is that realistic?
What to do with whirling-dervishes of ideas?
Is writing any of this even doing anything for me?
Why do I ask questions like that?
Does it need a boost to exist or to thrive?
What’s a family?
Did I forget or did I never actually know?
Do I want a family, need a family, or simply wish I understood bonding?
Do I understand bonding?
On nights of isolation and ticking clocks,
my mind questions the life force that continues writing through
nights of isolation and ticking clocks.
Memories of abandoned insane asylum’s suicide graveyard:
Enough residual energy to imprint morals?
Why was it eleven years ago that mohawks and liberty spikes mattered?
Why is it now stainless steel spiral gauges and elf ears?
Are they mixing transhumanistic aesthetics?
Am I forever spiraling around the histories of identity in divine correlation with existential purpose in a transcendental way?
Or is it of transcendental purpose in an existential way?