Insight my mind has not brought!
Endless loops with doubt fraught!
Infinite thoughts pitifully caught!
Stagnation has only wrought rot!
Insight my mind has not brought!
Endless loops with doubt fraught!
Infinite thoughts pitifully caught!
Stagnation has only wrought rot!
It takes a village to raise a child, a flag to raze the children. – Chris Hannah
Stop that grasping,
and just let it go.
I don’t exist,
and never have.
This body, this mind,
these cells of bone, muscle, nerves and skin.
I am an illusion,
emerging from a neural network,
unifying through gross abstraction,
these multiple, interacting, embedded parts.
I am and I am not.
I am here, but I am elsewhere.
I feel anger, but simultaneous joy; pessimism and optimism; strength and weakness. I am both heavy and light.
These are no mere metaphors,
turns of phrase,
figures of speech.
In no way am I speaking in analogy; it is not as if I don’t exist; it is not as if I am multiple yet one; it is not as if I speak to myself across infinitesimal chasms in my mind.
‘I’ and ‘me’ and ‘myself’, as descriptors, do not suffice.
There exists no single point, no central hub, no captain’s chair, where I take the helm and direct the show. But instead, there is system and sub-system feeding into itself and into the other; system within system of inter-networked biochemistry and electrical spikes. The sense, the illusion of self emerging from this near infinite complexity and potential.
Stop that grasping, that clinging, that clutching, that hoarding;
Stop that pining, that longing, that needing, that demanding;
Stop that storytelling, that narrating, that ascribing, that moralizing;
and let the illusion go.
Words do not suffice.
Let it go.
Twenty-four fountains. Spitting vertical spouts of clear water a foot high. Each stream pulled down on itself by gravity; unfurling liquid ferns held together by surface tension. At the tip of each transparent crystal frond quickly accelerating towards Earth’s center, fracturing and division as multiple single droplets break free; the droplets pit patting, pit patting, pit…pit…patting, the grey concrete paving stones. Tapping out a plot, a rhythm rich in meaning, just for me.
Twenty-four transient translucent authors, communicating amidst the jostling bustling hive of unaware humanity. Secretly, just to me.
‘How are you?’ ‘How are you?’ she said.
In a floating transitional state, waiting for the cosmos to give me the sign. Where are my legs? And gravity?
In a hyper-(ir)rational state. Am I sure of my arithmetic? Who says the world is logical? Logic to prove logic seems, well, ill-logical.
I am tense. But that is not my tension. My muscles vibrate with anxious intent. But they are not controlled by me. My hair is thick (yet thinning on top). But that hair crowns another man’s scalp.
Through the windows of the eyes, in the place where a soul might be, staring back in the mirror, something unborn, non-existent, flickers. Possessing a living host, it digs a tiny hollow, one fingernail scraping at a time. Piece by agonizing piece it widens its enclosure, allowing fresh air and light to fill the concave spaces around it.
As the cocoon about shudders and frets and lurches this way and that, the weightless non-entity bounces and spins freely in padded enclosures, thick organic walls of muscle and bone, pliable, absorbing the shocks of a chaotic existence.
‘How are you?’ ‘How are you?’ she said.
‘Oh, me, well I’m fine,’ would have been the reply, the sound carried reflexively up the throat, rolling over the tongue, out the lying mouth.
A colossal misunderstanding, and we both must be excused. In this universe the laws of arithmetic don’t always hold; but how could she have known? And I am tired of lies.
‘Oh, me, well I don’t exist. But thanks for asking.’
Trapped in this skin,
A developed presence trying to break free,
From the lower back, up along the edges of the spine, over and around the middle of the head: a pulling, wrenching pressure.
Something long dormant has awoken,
Cracking the thick, drying skin,
Snapping the taught sinew and corded muscle,
Breaking brittle bone, relieving tension.
Emerging, curled up, soft and rumpled folds;
A new body, a fresh wisdom and refined ego, stretching and extending, filling this old space with something new, hungry and invigorated.
Hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go! LET GO! – Tyler Durden from Fight Club
I am a play-acting leader wandering aimlessly,
Trudging up and down each ridge and valley,
Marching headstrong on twisted paths unknowing;
Eager to say ‘Here is the way, follow me.’
I set off young, ill-equipped, and eagerly,
To a distant snow-capped peak I aimed to journey,
Heavy burdensome pack filled to overflowing;
Doubt, inexperience, arrogant insecurity.
In each palm five tiny digits clasped firmly,
My delightful, loving, innocent responsibility,
Yet cradled deep within another growing;
Swaddled in armoured layers deceptively.
I now know I am the king of a fortress nursery,
Revealed to me by their lips curled mockingly,
To veiled contempt, through muffled laughter owing;
They all scorn the child I refused to see.
Now too great the burden’s intensity,
A suffocating pack and no hands free,
Foundation’s cracked, there is no more going;
Deep within a child cries desperately.
In this storm of clear and urgent necessity,
Heed those mocking faces – growth requires honesty –
King’s garments stripped as the tempest continues blowing;
I, reborn and naked before you, stand awkwardly.
Check out video here.
Check out lyric interpretations here.
Writers: Adam Jones, Daniel Carey, Maynard Keenan, Justin Chancellor
Wear the grudge like a crown of negativity.
Calculate what we will or will not tolerate.
Desperate to control all and everything.
Unable to forgive your scarlet lettermen.
Wear the grudge like a crown. Desperate to control.
Unable to forgive. And sinking deeper.
Defining, confining, sinking deeper.
Controlling, defining, and we’re sinking deeper.
Saturn comes back around to show you everything
Let’s you choose what you will, will not see and then
Drags you down like a stone or lifts you up again
Spits you out like a child, light and innocent.
Saturn comes back around. Lifts you up like a child
Or drags you down like a stone to
Consume you till you choose to let this go.
Choose to let this go.
Give away the stone. Let the oceans take and
Transmutate this cold and fated anchor.
Give away the stone. Let the waters kiss and
Transmutate these leaden grudges into gold.
For eleven years we stood side by side, drifting on the surface of a mirror lake.
Eyes cast down, we mistook our reflections for reality.
And as we drifted toward the approaching falls, the surface remained smooth, unbroken, for we drifted imperceptibly.
In and out of silent coves, we failed to register the shifting shores.
And then there was one more who joined us. And another. Two new reflections appeared and we both tilted our heads.
And as seen from without, as by an observer to the unfolding plot – fate, say – there would be no doubt: they apprehended the reality of those new souls, and it filled them both with joy, real and undiluted.
And with love.
Eyes fixed on our children, or cast down on unbroken reflections, we failed to register the shifting shores.
And then, as seen by fate, they picked up speed. Unaware. Minutes dripped into days and days into months, and then the years, passing without break, without mercy, without warning.
So it was. The slow drifting became a swift advance, and we, mere passengers on a rudderless raft, convinced we had control, trusting our deceiving eyes and the distending reflections being swept swiftly along.
Hand in my hand, her arm began, is if made of rubber bands, to stretch, pulling with an unseen power away from me.
Her body, elongated horizontal, being sucked into the nearing vortex.
And we, convinced this distorting reflection made sense. Looking, to either side, at playing, growing happy children. Mixing reflections and reality. It all made sense.
And now, her arm is so long. The fingers intertwined with mine growing ever thinner, narrowing to nothingness, approaching the horizon of no return, sucked, pulled unknowingly, terribly into the gathering torrent of the approaching falls.
And still that distending reflection was all we knew of each other. And it made sense.
Head bent. Children playing in the sunshine.
And now her body a distant point. Distended from my perspective as to be unrecognizable. I see the shifting shores, fleeting now to blur, too late my desperate lunge, pitiful attempt at self-preservation. I plunge over the falls.
Now nothing but air and water, air and rocks, in a tumbling kaleidoscope of chaos.
And looked at from without, by fate, mother and father extending wings soft and strong. Wings not meant to fly, for nothing can rescue them from this plunge. But wings to protect, to shelter, the only real thing left, knowable. An act of pure instinct and love. Wings unfurled and then immediately furled, wrapping soft protection, cocooning the children.
Coming up. Gasping. My hands palms upward break the water’s surface. Between my fingers, a memory. The reflections on the water scattered continuously in bursts of churning bubbles, sparkling light.
Through the thin wings enwrapping, the children see and sense, yet cannot comprehend this different world.
And I, desperate to find my bearings, head bobbing, eyes no longer cast downward, but seeing as if for the first time. Wings wrapped protectively, I search timidly.
And here, on distant, barely perceptible shores, rising and falling as I bob in place, her body rematerializes from the ether, organized web of light.
Seen from without, he looks at her. Eyes no longer cast downward. He looks at her. And for once he sees her, but fails to discern the direction of her gaze.
Severed narratives. Ego, understanding, security, perspective, ripped asunder.
Open, festering, emotional wounds.
Who am I?
With what do I build again? How do I see again? Where does the nightmare end and the future begin?
I repeat: where does the nightmare end and the future begin?
Optimistically uncertain. But afraid. Nervous. What parts of the old me are worth holding onto? Which bits scattered afield should I collect, pick up and place in my bucket, to be cleaned and reassembled?
I survey the fields. Empty. In need of nourishment. I survey the fields. A hollow shell.
Who am I?
A father. Aye! A father! I am that. Indeed I am. And what else? A fighter. Aye! A fighter! I do indeed care enough to fight. And what else? Alive. Aye! Breath still enters these lungs. And what else? Principled. Yes. I am grounded in principles.
And what are those principles? What grounds me?
Truth. Yes truth, and self-awareness. Avoid, at all costs, self-deception, willing blindness. Avoid, at all costs, refusal to peer within and assess, comprehend what you see.
This aids truth.
Truth. Yes truth, and respect from others. Accept only so much deceit before moving on. People lie for any number of reasons. You have the power, the right, to move on, to no longer accept partnership, subjection, to another’s consistent lying.
This aids truth.
Truth. Yes truth, and forgiveness. Understand we all, everyone of us, make mistakes, are sometimes led down dark corridors, can lose our true paths. Forgive others and forgive yourself, but never forget. Don’t become naive. Don’t blind yourself. You can forgive, but you must not allow yourself to become the victim of another’s consistent, disrespectful, harmful actions and words.
This aids truth.
Truth. Yes truth, and self-confidence. You are as capable and as good as you currently are. Have you reached your potential? Continue the struggle with confidence, head held high, looking skyward, until you do. You are only as capable and as good as you currently are, and nobody can ask more of you at any given moment than that, including yourself. There is no reason to get down on yourself. Control only what is in your power to control. The hand you were dealt belongs to a cosmic lottery, the same one played by every single person who exists or has ever existed or who will ever exist. Compare not with envy and longing yourself to others, but look hard into your own eyes and find where you can and are willing to improve. Control only what you can control, with confidence.
This aids truth.
The nightmare ends, and the future begins, at truth.
Not so hollow after all. I survey these fields, life-giving, life-affirming seeds in hand.
What is my problem?
I can’t control this anymore. Let it out. Let it out. Let it out. A million times let it out.
Do you want to be that person? No?
Let it out. Let it out. You don’t need control. Let it out. Let it out.
Let go of the control. You don’t need control. You don’t need control.
People get hurt; let it out.
People make mistakes; let it out.
One year, three years, one hundred years; let it out.
Oh my pride; let it go. It hurts, oh my pride. My pride it hurts; let it go. Oh my pride. Let it go.
Alone in this meaningless universe. But not really alone. No heaven, no hell, no god to guide me. Alone. But not really alone. Who shall lead? Me?
So insecure in myself; so very unsure. Why on my heart did you tread? Why?
Let it go. No why. Let it go.
No why! Let it go!
I shall lead or be led – no control, no pride, no insecurity, in this meaningless world. Let come what may. I shall lead or be led. No control.
Let that all go. Let that all out. Open the gates and watch the flood, the stress of a million doubts wash the barren plains of the soul. Cleanse the spirit with the deluge of doubt. Put it to good use for once.
Watch it go.
Let it go.
Just because it hurts doesn’t make it bad. And pleasure can be an insidious companion.
Addiction may bring ecstatic release; enlightened dedication, anxious suffocation.
The devil wears many guises, and a rose sits atop a ladder of thorns.
I am sorry for the things I’ve done, of which I was aware,
And I am sorry for the things I’ve done, in my ignorance at the time.
But I am sorry more for the things I didn’t do, the things I didn’t do, the things I didn’t do.
I didn’t know – to be sorry makes little sense –
and I don’t care.
(In my poem I am allowed to be a god, and to render an apology for things I didn’t know)
(In my poem I am allowed to be a god, and to take all your pain. I am your saviour, because I want to be … and to render an apology for things I didn’t know)
What does she want?
I am sorry for the things I didn’t do, I didn’t do, I didn’t do.
(In this poem I am a god…and yet, I still don’t know)
On the way stooped a little woman. The path now paved with symmetric stone. There she stood with grey hair flowing, watching dancing shadows on her hand. On the way grew blades of grass. A symbol of life between the cracks.
For ever, for none, the shadows danced; of swaying leaves, and wisps of hair; of branches and blades of grass.
The shadows danced.
Of ancient walks, and cracking hands, and death. Death of a lovely girl, who once walked this path. Alone. When the grass was always green, and young, and free. When the skin of the earth was fresh, and vibrated with harmonious chords through her body.
Now – death. And cold. And smiling lips of sagging flesh.
Slowly, carefully, she kneels down and plucks a blade. Stabs it deeply into her cracked chest. Upon her bloodless palm shadows change: the green knife catching the gentle breeze.
Hate, anger, jealousy need to be expressed. They do not, however, command such respect. They definitely do not need to be heeded. They want justification to exist. Well they have it! What more could they possibly want, why are they so insatiable? What could satisfy them? I imagine, not much.
I wonder: What if the whole world felt my pain, your pain? Felt sorry? Would that placate hate and anger? What if half the world felt it? A quarter? A single country? Your community? My street? A neighbour? Simply just you? Just me? Where does it begin, where does it end?
What do hate and anger want? To hurt? To hurt others? Me? You? To dine at the table of vengeance? And then what? Reduce the target of their existence to a heap of guilt, of ridicule and tears. Vengeance smells sweet, looks pleasing, but how does it taste? Bitter? Take the pain and inflict it a hundred fold. Would that act, that behaviour, lead to anything good, respectable, positive, forward thinking, upward looking?
Oh, I believe the act itself could feel good, cathartic, for a fraction of a moment. The consequences, not as much. I do not want to be enslaved by these emotions. Quite frankly, they do not become me, and they are tedious companions, exhausting. The desires whispered in my ear by hate and anger, the goals they think they would achieve, would never come to pass. They appear only to want to salvage pride, the ego.
Egoistic pride isn’t worth the effort. Egoistic pride can be hurt. But there is a type of pride to nurture, a positive, illuminating, motivating pride. Beneficial pride is progressive, not regressive, a spring of confidence and optimism, not a blanket for insecurity and doubt.
Beneficial pride cannot be hurt, does not bend to the whims of negativity. Deep abiding pride heeds not insults, nor affronts. Positive pride belongs to a confident soul; it is the engine of the motivation to do well, to do good for oneself and one’s community.
Positive pride is a monument to just deeds and deserved recognition, a stopping point on one’s life path, a sign-post, forever accessible on one’s journey, pointing forward, ever forward.
Positive pride says ‘saddle up, there is the way, you’ve made it this far, there is your way…onward! Onward, life traveler.’
Is it not said that ‘pride commeth before the fall’? This is the pride protecting the ego, leading to hubris, to overconfidence. This is the pride that can be vengeful, because it can be hurt, can become resentful and hateful. The good pride of which I speak is related to the feeling one has of good deeds attempted and desirable outcomes achieved, of the fleeting yet reinforcing admiration of others, by doing and achieving deeds and outcomes deemed worthy by yourself and the community. It is not pride that inflates the ego, that feeds off selfishness, that feeds selfishness in turn; it is the pride that indicates, that signals, that one is on the right path, a good direction. It is a road-mark, a checkpoint, a milestone. Beneficial pride is but a shadow cast by good deeds, an after-glow, an impression of great things on one’s emotional fabric.
To have a sense of pride is not a bad thing. Positive pride cannot possibly be dirtied or defiled or hurt in any way. It is but a corollary of good actions attempted and good outcomes achieved. It does not hang around, seeking undue admiration. It is not a garb to be worn defensively by one’s ego. It is not even a thing, in and of itself, for it cannot exist without the actions and results in whose presence it is cast. Beneficial pride is utterly dependent. It has to be earned, continually, through deeds confidently taken, outcomes deliciously obtained.
Positive pride is a shadow, and a shadow cannot be harmed.
Hatred and anger need a foil for their existence, they need a target for their justification. They are vengeful, spiteful emotions that want to inflict pain. Hatred does not point anywhere positive. Anger is all consuming, fueled by the positive essence of one’s being. Anger will burn until that essence is all used up. The only benefit of these emotions is to draw attention to potential and actual threats to oneself and one’s community. Many things are not okay. There is much vice and immorality in the world- Hatred and anger can draw attention to morally suspect realities, can motivate the identification, combating, and remediation of bad things. If bad things go unchallenged, the world is worse off. Hatred and anger are two emotions that motivate the challenge of bad things.
But hatred, anger, jealousy, can so easily lead to ruin, for oneself and others. The outcomes they effect may very well be out of all proportion to their cause. And what kind of outcome should one wish to effect, if not a positive one? What kind of outcome, that cannot possibly be positive, is desirable at all? We are no longer members of wandering bands of proto-humans. Anger and hatred have little reason to exist today, as our survival no longer depends on them. But our egos do! Our egos, if weak, dine on hatred, drink of pain.
Am I hurting? Are you? Yes. We all are, or will be, or have been. Would reducing the source of your pain, the target of our hatred, to an emotional mess, disgracing it in the eyes of the community, serve any positive end? No.
It is extremely selfish to think my pain, the motivation behind any form of vengeance, is more valuable, more worthy, than the pain and suffering my vengeance would create. What actually would I be avenging? My sense of egoistic pride? But that is not worth fighting for.
A strong sense of ego cannot be dismantled nor destroyed by anything external. A strong ego is forward thinking, upward looking, impervious to wrongs committed, yet not naive. A strong ego knows life brings many challenges, but that striving for good for oneself and one’s community is the highest, the most noble path. Take pride in leaving sign-posts and monuments along your path, provided they teach valuable lessons, distill wisdom, and point forward, ever forward.
Is it possible that if I can find a moral reason supporting my pain and anger I can feel justified in feeling my pain and anger are more real…more valuable…than another’s? Does my pain always take priority? Do I treat those closest to me as my pain receptacles? Do I inflict upon them all my aggression and resentment, treat them as scapegoats? When they all leave, does the whole world become my scapegoat?
Think of the time I get angry, think of the times when you do. Analyze it. Does the anger have a justifiable basis? Or is it simply a result of not getting your way? Not getting what you thought you deserved? Is a show of aggression, both passive and outright, not merely a consequence of friends, lovers, partners, the world, not giving in? Not submitting to your childish demands? For me, what ensues? During and after the anger? A search for justification. A lengthy debate, often, where I try to prove on principle that what angered me was morally wrong. This justifies my anger.
Find a principle, justify anger.
Narration. Storytelling. Meaning. All combined in consciousness. The ego, too, a product of the conscious mind. A powerful, at times all consuming, illusion. Children, at the earliest possible age, should be taught these truths. All manner of trauma, of fear, of anxiety, could be learned to be placed in their proper context. As I recently read: life, living, straddles the fine line between order and chaos. Order is a narrative, a sense of security, a sense of knowing the world and your place in it. Chaos is an assault on that narrative; chaos is unleashed when the death of a loved one, when the betrayal of a lover, when the loss of a job, when the paralysis-causing head-on collision suddenly and without warning severs one or more of the intricate threads holding your narrative together. And we will do nearly anything to salvage, to repair, to retie those threads. Getting up in the morning and facing the day is greatly aided with a secure narrative. Believing one’s health is good, is order. Believing one’s family is safe, is order. Believing one’s job is secure, is order. Believing one’s loved one is faithful, is order. As the events of life pass through our senses and are viewed with the light of consciousness, they are immediately and without notice fitted into one’s narrative. Cold objective reality is given meaning. The sense of one’s autonomy, of one’s ego, is continually fed the illusory nutrition of the free will. All control; all keeping chaos at bay.
I can’t take it anymore, the monotonous monumental indecision suffocating my person. It is a boring companion and I am tired.
Do I truly believe there’s a magic bullet, a perfect decision to be had, that would bring all my qualities and desires together into one package, to confront the business of living dressed in the garb of superior wisdom? Am I sincere when I state, ‘I need to find the thread of truth to give it my all’? Oh, what monumental rationalizations that have justified my uncomfortable drifting. Petty, petty rationalizations!
Here’s a thought: I’m weak, afraid to latch onto my desires, frightened of failure, insecure in my beliefs.
Nourished by weakness I found a type of nihilism – my ultimate rationalization, perennial spring of soothing justification. Nothing matters. NOTHING! Including my life, including any decision I do or do not take. Nihilism allowed me to submit to my weakness, to drift with the knowledge that nothing is absolute, nothing is certain.
Drifting became as right as action. And in a sense, I still believe this to be true. Given certain axioms, this conclusion is logically unavoidable: any decision we do take has meaning insofar as we impart meaning to it. The whole of the universe is a law abiding amalgam of matter and energy bumping about, associating and disassociating with no purpose whatsoever. It’s what the universe does, it’s what the universe is.
There is something strangely soothing about this nihilism. I suspect, however, its soothing property is based on my weakness, my inability to conduct myself and my life. It soothes because it rationalizes my indecision, relieving my anxiety at feeling meaningless. I am meaningless, and so is everybody and everything. And this thought makes me feel better. And yet, it’s but a temporary fix. A thought I must inject into my awareness anytime my indecision, my anxiety surfaces. It’s my fix, my addiction. It is no cure.
But why not? Why cannot I be content with this nihilism and just be? Enter the emotions; or rather, enter the complexity of the human being, of which I am one, of course. Is it not true that humans naturally search for, invent and attach themselves to meaning? For whatever reason, to whatever advantage it holds, it appears a person secure in her purpose is also emotionally and spiritually sound, fulfilled. The purpose need not be ambitious, need not be profound. It only needs to be hers. The complete person is embodied meaning.
This sounds good. Sounds fine. A complete person is one who embodies meaning.
I assure you, there is nothing so uncomfortable, spiritually, than to feel useless, drifting in a void, drowning in a sea of indecision, all the while wishing it was otherwise. If your deepest wish is to feel complete, and if you know completeness depends on finding a purpose, and if you understand that purpose is entirely subjective, and if you are not prefigured with a purpose, nor able to adopt one wholeheartedly, then how can you fulfil your deepest wish? It seems paradoxical.
If these are the conditions that mark me – need for a completeness tied to a purpose which, unfortunately, I do not innately possess, and which I cannot discover because I know there isn’t one to discover – then am I forever to remain incomplete? Anxious and insecure? Drifting? Or is the solution itself a paradox? Could it be my search for purpose is in fact my purpose? Something to be found only when I search for it? To hold explicitly when I don’t hold it? Let me clarify: I attach great meaning to finding a meaning. Therefore, have I actually found it?
It is possible my great anxiety stems from my struggle against the flood of indecision that pulls and drowns me. I am anxious because I sense, at a deep emotional and spiritual level (one and the same place, to me), something amiss. A part of me, probably seated in the primeval reptilian part of my brain, washes my cells with molecules which elicit negative emotions, because it thinks (not really) that I need some absolute meaning to latch onto, to guide my life, to make me whole. Is this the original seed of religions and all other doctrinaire arrogances? Am I like an infant, afraid to be on my own in this uncaring universe?
Is our species likewise in its infancy, requiring the equivalent of an emotional assurance that our parent, God, has not abandoned us, still loves and cares for us, guiding us, providing us meaning? The completeness we feel by being a part of a grand design, by having a purpose in the work of cosmic significance, surely adds to a happy, fulfilling life. Imagine the anxiety an infant experiences who can no longer depend upon, who has lost, his parents.
It’s possible, if not probable, that the more enlightened of our species understand that Dad fucked off long ago and Mom never loved us to begin with.
We were not, are not, ready to leave the crib, to emotionally fend for ourselves, to find completeness without the aid of an authority figure, a doctrine of absolutes, guidance, a loving mother’s breast, the comfort of a father’s protection. We need stories to believe, guides to follow: parenting, parenting, parenting. Without it, we are naked in the dark.
Loving gods we fear. The warmth of cosmic meaning. Primeval pacifiers of our collective conscious awakening, to rock us gently, gently back to sleep. But now that my consciousness can no longer slumber, I feel cold and afraid in this room without walls. This house is quiet, and dark, and my light is broken. I yell for help but none comes. I’m hungry, but there is no milk to be had.
Welcome to my world.
For bloggers who aspire to inspire
frightfully wondrous things happen here.
Just sharing some experiences :)
Ending my silence
Discussing All Things Psychological...
confessions are self-serving
Science, Skepticism, Atheism
Through life and strife, all may still thrive.
Me.. Era !
Poetry by Valeria Castellanos
Writer. Horror lover. Metalhead. 40-something.
Happy Colorful Growth
Failure inspires Winners and defeats Losers!!!
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