In a past life I must have been cruel.
I do not mean a past life I can only dream. A dream in which might be recalled the love between Alexander and Hephaestion. No, not just a dream.
I mean a past life, that at times, feels like yesterday.
Days like these I find myself confronted by such a life; of my past. Seeing straight through the mask of self prepared so carefully within the depths of craved, perhaps depraved, acceptance. Leaving me to wonder what good, if any, I may or may not have provided.
In the eyes of wonder, the waves of cold doubt crash into me. Cold I use to possess. As if there was some form of self that deserved to be possessed by such cold.
A cold that forces you to crawl inside the womb of your anxieties, wrestle your demons, question your value, and die ... unto your own visions of self, repeatedly. Until the very moment there is nothing left to die unto.
Recognizing the very lack of definition with which you are born. In this life, and the next. In whatever moment you finally decide to live, that is.