I thought about sleeping in. I thought about, or almost came close to letting the darkness creep in. But then my strength came back, and heaviness dissipates, as I write my hurting. My pen just cries, and I come close to death as my ink runs low.
My spirit feels, weighted. I DESIRE to be understood. I am serious, in superfluous matters, knowing that I want attraction in my next love, chapter.
I have to escape often. I heal in my escape. I grow in my escape. I am weak if I don’t. Sensitivity Is a strength and not a weakness, true.
It is a skill and power. But also sensitivity is destructive.
Sensitivity paired with wisdom, is like a dynamite. That I wish to keep burning until my meeting of death, no where near soon.
But sensitivity is impaired, and harms me, and blows me to pieces, when I let go, and let my love rupture my mind and soul.
I must be wise too.