Sweat it out until nothing is left

As this growing heat permeated my body and I couldn’t stop it, I let it consume me for a while to see whether I’d get a taste too.

It tasted bad and left a salty aftertaste on my tongue, followed by a lingering bitterness.

It wasn’t self-inflicted; it was merely the result of my body’s attempt to drain the foul smell of impurity. Sweat it out.

Veins are showing everywhere as if the blood-flow is rushing to places. Only an accumulation of wasted thoughts and second-hand feelings are going in circles, and you’re too much of a coward to break free.

There is this negative force on which you depend, and it absorbs all your energy–the precious energy you could use to create value.

Lately, it has been hard to focus and distinguish the real from the unreal. It’s like being dragged closer to the border of where two worlds meet. A secure smell would linger on my hands and arms, like fiction coming to life. And you realise this is too good to be true. And it’s happening to you rather than others.

Melancholy stung me like a delirious wasp. There are times where anger is too inferior to melancholy, and I run out of strength to be angry.

Ellen never chose to be weak, except just once, which was ok. I never resented her. Sometimes you wonder what the kiss of death would taste like. She liked risks because a little challenge kept life interesting. She survived that kiss.

And here’s my superego working against me every day.

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