Bite the apple, but do it in front of the mirror

Come on, have one last laugh, a final, bittersweet echo of someone I thought I was before reading this, before the manic tempest subsides.

It’s 4 am, and like many nights, I cannot sleep. The noise within me demands to be heard, compelling my thoughts to spill onto… eight pages so far. Words flow, yet every sentence feels like waking up a dormant, perhaps too comfortable self, over and over again—a torturous exercise, yet the pain is curiously soothing. I’m upset at myself for disrupting my routine, but this inner voice, this bridge between the hemispheres that most mistake for some sort of “God,” is not mine to command. I am merely a vessel, helpless but responsible. So I write.

I grasp why this spark of madness craves blank pages. They are sacred ground where angels and demons coexist, contained within the four corners, waiting for someone to breathe life into them and then wake them up again as someone who reads them finds or loses themselves within them. As I am both lost and found now in this passage of Fyodor.

I don’t place faith in human power, but I deeply revere the power of words. Language is the depth of consciousness.

And so, I return to this paragraph that either stirred my soul awake or pushed me to give life to it… it wants me to laugh, and it’s just so easy to succumb because you can’t reject is-ness.

“Come on, have one last laugh, a final, bittersweet echo of someone I thought I was before reading this, before the manic tempest subsides.” It is a laugh tinged with the melancholy of self-purging, as this was the missing thread to weave my manic self into the fabric of my being. How did YOU know I needed these words? Or did these exact words need me?

I’m listening 

mo