Maybe in writing the pain will pass
Maybe if words flow like blood, out of my finger tips and into the world...
Catching in a net, plain to see for those who know to look...
For those who care to look.

This is nothing important. Just every day life. Right?

Edges and cliffs. It takes so little for so much to change.
We know too much. But what matters?
We hear and over hear and get told all kinds of little, significant things...
Allowing us to see the webs that connect everything together....
And so we wait, watching, knowing pain is coming...

And because we know, we are trapped, feeling the pains of what is to come...

It is not our place, it never was. And yet...

Alone is for eternity.

We have been given the option to never be alone. So what drives us towards loneliness? Is it safety? But safety is no fun, we know that. Especially in solitude. Also safety is relative, so why should safety have a say in what we choose today?

And there is the problem; so often it doesn't.

Risk keeps us going, and safety calls our name. Trapped. Between what we know and what we don't, in so many more ways than one.

Crashing. Like Icarus, we get too close to the sun and our wings melt, clinging to our skin, boiling wax, burning us as we crash into an unforgiving sea. Risen on wings of daring, crashing in a sea of fear.

Escape is impossible. Fated to a labyrinth, following its winding path, undeviating as we make our way to the center, to face our demons. Half man and half beast, the death of us, the death of life. Where is the thread, the clew to escape with? There is none, not today. Today it is either fight or be devoured.

Devoured. Devoured by pain, self hatred, the flames and claws that rip us apart.

Pain...

Maybe in writing the pain will pass.
But then again, we've felt this before. Every day living. We just have to wait it out....

Right?