This life contains numerous cycles. Some which I find myself repeating over and over. No, I do not die and rise again like the phoenix or some ancient deity. No, I do not turn from water to vaporous clouds only to loose myself once again upon dry earth.
My cycles are internal. I roam from frail hope, to boisterous confidence which after its turn shatters into some pathetic self-loathing worthless creature: my true self.
I am cruel and selfish. I wasnāt born to heal but to hurt. Cut over festering cut. Hammer blow by hammer blow. Cracking bones and twisted ligaments. I was made to slice, to bruise. My friends, my family, my loves, the stranger across the street. But most of all myself.
There is a truth lurking sometimes at the very bottom of the well. Something rooted so deep that to pull it out of myself would be to pull my own self. It is my dna. I was made to be alone. To save countless others from the slaughter that is me.
