the Purgatory of a Broken Heart

Fall into the abysmal depths

After decades of chronic instrumentalization, you begin to experience a unique type of grief.

Does anyone see me?

Or do they just see through me?

I love the cutesie ish, up to a point. —>

Once I’m past that point, I’m as cynical as it gets.

Some may call it thrill seeking, but how do you know unless you’ve been there in the flesh.

Unlocking pattern recognition, telling me preemptively what this will be.

Yet, I cannot resist the pull. The observer and the observed splitting the moment.

What does it mean?

Nothing essential was lost, only misallocated. 🌊🌞