Ach, it rains heavy on me sometimes. Each blow parried pushes me back a step further and I get hit too often for my taste. I know that the peace needed to reforge my resolve can only ever be made in the present moment. Like a forest to hide the little house where I forge my blades, boy, do they ever get rusty and dull, day by day. I know that and still. Still I seem only to hang on by a thread these days. I am too used to this kind of conflict to be felled by my vices. This one has seen far more brutal situations and lived to tell. Bla bla. But sometimes I wonder whether I am too used to this kind of conflict to win them, as well. That heavy, thorned mantle of being a struggler, does it fit too well for me to be brave enough to throw it away? No. Remember. Last fall. Last fall I managed to get rid of all this bullshit long enough that clarity came like a gust of wind to cut away all that fog around the creature that I am/can be. Sneak preview of the self, my dear. And be it for a moment: I've seen something else in me, in my life and need to not let go of that. Because that felt fucking marvellous. This razor sharp moving maze, this fog is not everything, nor is it eternal. Ach.