2nd House on the Wright

     I feel sick as I write this, it was something I never wanted to experience again. The hungry fear of pitfall.

     Friday afternoon, I lay studying on my bed, simultaneously hand in hand with Adam Kadmon. I read and reread Strunk & White to achieve any level of utmost perfection I could reasonably reach.

     Suddenly, the airs shifted. A sound unknown to the Valley of Death flooded its caves, choking my ears and drowning all of my senses. Victimizing myself into the vulnerability of it, I stepped a moment outside that door to where the world stood impatient to conquer me, to see it had already beaten down a chosen door of it’s own, exposing my private Duat.

     The existence of my emancipator isn’t what hurt the most.

     The fear of whether I could live or die long enough to breathe in the next moment is what grounded my wings and handicapped me into BVT A WORM. Time had ceased to exist.

     The descent had destroyed me, and yet, I lived.

     The bowels of my tallest horror had not yet swallowed me whole.

     I learned: even when weakened by life’s meticulous events, it remains my duty to stand unaffected and unafraid. I paraphrase—all events are impersonal, even if drowning against the weaklings in the Lake of the Dead.