2051 4.1.2022.

You have primed me to be a wolf. When I am a sheep. Perhaps it is your choice of protective mechanism. Which now has mine engaged as well. Hence flourishing ceases, all possible splendid moments die, and our endless wonders burn till they consequently turn into ashes. Such a pity.

Maybe we all are glues with stubborn layers over us. Layers on top of additional layers that embrace us with warmth, comfort, predictability, and constance. The layers that will save us from venturing those dark paths and crevices. The layers that will embrace us so firmly to suffocation. Suffocation of truth and dark beauty. That true beauty most don’t want to taste, including us.

It will repeat until the smothering is no longer tolerable. When will that be? Who knows.