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Rated: 13+ · Monologue · Writing · #2257466
"When one talks in conversation with God, does life seem unreal even onto miracles?"
August 30th, 2021

Tremors of Childish Embrace!

As I entail certain degrees of posturing aroma, the summer heat at its end becomes more intense, and I am certain I am clouded and deconstructed among words to pasture over lands and fields of greater resemblance of emotional value.

In other words, more precise to this human involvement channeled in unbalanced emotion, chemicals as most would consider, I am uncertain about the use of human knowledge and how to enable the passion once fought, judged, and executed all without remorse or telling. I had entranced to become a writer of serious intentions, possibly escaping from the mental disease, but the disease inflicted me too far, to what ends did I believe and think that I could defeat something so dead that I am unable to function without occurrence towards aimed nutrition.

No matter the amount of prescribed drugs that induct, I shall remain here as long as I am severely damaged, unable to have the courage to compassion, and brave thoughts to pasture into realities sake. I am useless in the manner and sense of the previous word.

All thoughts pass, and I am concerned I shall be stuck, like hot glue mustered, onto emotion suppressed for the remainder of life. I would rather have the thoughts of self-murder, suicide, and be able to write what I desire, instead of flagging over and over, repetitively analyzing humans with not a hint of content embraced onto my own heart.

“What remains within me is somewhat dilated into black, and the darkness does shew itself here. The heart of man, that which I dissuade with daily initiation and intentions, becomes obscene and unavailable to be contacted without measure of some sense of working, pretending advancement. Indeed, what reason do I lie to maintain?”

I run too far, and become exhausted without fruits to bring forwards to the open mouth. The teeth are brittle, and the tongue is sour, but I am canceled among the human race, challenged to divide rituals of destruction onto oneself without meaning—pointless vagabond thoughts pottering in human flesh, definite toilets where bowels are released to supper the incoming void.

I obtain hatred to what is written. Is it both hatred and the impossible task to write that obtains domination over this mind of mine? So brittle and dark and caused to hatred for human life? I examine the hands typing drastic love for the written word, but, I have not love, and therefore what is the main directive in this periodic life in the hands of God?

“I am in argument, and I understood I would pass this dictation. But, what can man do against chemicals outside of the vessel, portioned to exempt feelings and emotions to the center core of the brain? I am sadden with hatred to the point of digression and dis-compassionate intentions are belonging to me like that of branches on a tall, wide mustered tree!”

I stood from the mind, embraced natural clause and dissuaded the ideas advancing into correlated realities intentions. And I said with concerned embrace beseech-ed, “If I can’t write stories, then I shall die an earliest death.”

“I am discoursed and abandoned. Who can aim higher thoughts than depression and existence traced from the Hands of an Almighty Loving God? Tell me in formations of love, and hate shall be deduced as emotional value.”

The previous night was governed with immortal thoughts of success, famous indention into the minds disease, and the prevalent illnesses that provide discomfort among the seedless corruption made available to me throughout the night. I desired to write at once, but as I mustered more thoughts, the ideals and the sight of the computer and the white keyboard drenched in dried sweat, compels me to die.”

“I would like to write a Science Fiction Rathkampism novel filed into the future of human civil concerns. But can I possibly adept to such nonsense?”

“What manner of love confines me into treasures, locks the chest, and demands me to deposit the gold within to the families broken among the trails of ancient earth? How does one open from the inside when the outside is burden with a safe code?” How can I possibly entertain humans without hope in the written texts? Those devoid of human life and terrible sounds would appreciate these works, but their minds are unavailable to become known to the sentence structure, for their hearts are banned with hatred, communion does challenge such prerogatives, yet I slice the dice without reason, and still the numbers show.

‘What can I do Lord, our Lord? What could I understand in written change, entertain the human race and not teach them the meaning of existence of which is to serve the Father in Heaven, You, and the exactness of spiritual Holy Spirit embrace? What could I do to obtain treasures in this world, and not save them up, all the same?”

“I must demand to write fiction, or I shall become like the dead unable to resurrect in perfectionism.”
© Copyright 2021 C.R. Rathkamp (bellhite at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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