Photo by Arvind Shakya
I have created the tempest that are my thoughts, waged against themselves to carry on throughout the host of my life, engaged in various scenario both real and fiction.
The tedium of waiting for the day to end if not met with reasonably challenging circumstance; to foray the occasional happenstances of mild conversation whilst determining its authenticity, except in the presence of good friends and pleasant things.
Those things that keep at abeyance the turmoil of past actions (usually in the form of regret), unless of course you have graduated from that level of sadness and prefer the more striking variant that comes from stupid actions not yet taken (or worst repeated out of boredom, desperation, and design).
After all, imagination definitely has its sway on the fictional adversaries we create in order to half prepare ourselves for the adjacent horrors pending our routine. I don't want to be afraid, but I am all the time, more so of myself than anything, which makes the rage of my thoughts that more terrifying because I cannot escape or fool myself.
There should not be anything left of the world, within my scope of limitation, that I have not already entertained in preparation for its occurrence; and sleep comfortably in that bed of outcomes every night and awake each morning their anticipation.
And yet, the unknown is still left unchecked by my decisions and can unveil itself by my hand or by chance, so why tempt the odds by my own hand. I must know that my will is my own. It is in its passing center, my tempest, that I occasionally find peace.