Dearest,
Do not go into the blue, seeking a cure for this ailment. This pain is eternal, like the moon; rising, setting, pulling at the tides of the innermost you. Remerging wounds imbued with happenstance. Which care failed to provide, repressed upon belief, relief- only a vice away, yet pain’s awaying absence- a farce.
Days upon days, cycling, blooming this inner pain, stemming from the cruelty of factors imposed upon us. My dearest, like the seasons, this pain will cycle harsh winters, and vast summers. Ad infinitum.
This deep pain, reflected in the trivialities of the day, seeps vile into the nectar of the present. Look at it, reach out, hold it. For only then can you see the reflection of the wounded. Reach in there- The past, a deep winter. The present, an endless summer.
~
