it's been hurting lately.

it's hard to pin myself down.
I don't really want to do it.
I have no desire to make myself defined as a single thing, tyranical.
coming to the truth of my existance as a god insignificant and frail is pointless anyway.
and im so tired.
pain and tired.
This is what im currently experiancing and i sleep to avoid.
not so much that it's incapacitating, but frustrating all the same.
Enough that it sours the moods and colors my interpretations.

it all began at that time i was in that other world.
i was a child curious and hopeful, but ostrisized.
I felt that there was so much out in the world for me to learn.
While digging through my closet i found at the bottom an old book i didn't recognize.
The book was large and esoteric.
I flipped open to the first page and the text down that first page was enchanting.
it was the story of metamorphasis, of change, of becoming.
it was clearly my story or a story like one i wanted to be mine.
But it was also a frightening story, of decpetion and cruel manifestations.
i could sence this from the books weight, from the first few pages.
I also knew i could not be caught reading it at home.
There was something occult and shameful about it.

I secreted the tome out of the house and wandered a bit.
In the distance i heard the sounds of shelling. It was a somewhat constant affair in these parts. now and then we'd have to deal with a bomb falling in our neighboorhood or otherwise nearby but it had become a normal. People were used to it, and just went about their lives like nothing strange was happening. I found an abandoned home and went inside. I didn't want to risk being seen by someone with this book. it was too strange, too illegal.

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