To rip out one's own heart.
An unstoppable wave of a sensory emotion unlike anything before. Disrupting thought.
If it were to be despair, would the fates of before, ingrained in shadows, forever etched into the mind?
Remembrance cannot be said.
If it were to be joy, has the madness from such a being taken hold, coiling around the body?
Polarising in sense, invigorating these hands.
Constantly twitching.
Asking to do something. Anything. Pleading for movement of muscle.
It is withheld deep in the heart.
Squirming.
Was it the past action, a consequence unknown?
The drive uncertain.
Unwillfully guiding actions yet to be taken. Stopped only by the mere sanity of a feeble man.
With each look, it neither extinguishes nor flares.
The waking, crawling, dread reaps the sound from everything.
Fuzzily burying memory alongside the many graves created along the way.
It must be said the gnawing feeling is perceptible to an unimaginable degree.
Likewise ignorance cannot be indulged.
Extreme as it was, it poured smoldering liquid. Opposition made from the very conflicting sense felt.
There is no answer to where it came from.
Only the unrealistic pain hallucinating.
Puncturing, squeezing.
Is this the fault of the disaster wielded by feeble man?
These thoughts hold merit.
Much pain brought about by one action.
One action.
A resurrection, gifted by neither heaven, the world, time.
It must be moved.
For it to go away.
Disappear.
It was only lies spoken of a life promised with a reward.
Desertion.
Can it not be said so?
If none can do it, how can it possibly be a lie?
It simply never happened.
It is too much of a taboo.
If this feeling was the same, that would make it all miserable.
A reminder.
A deadly reminder of the borders broken before; unleashing the cradle of chaos.
Fear too much and paranoia devours.
It has already left.
The vessel cares not. For a unanimous agreement that the worse flashes brightly among happiness.
An ugly flesh wound never there.
A revolting emotion killing the main ones.
Greedily taking and flaunting with every fiber.
Relishing obliteration.
The lost mind cannot hold.
Delving down the spiral. Contempt, euphoria, echoing words strung into sentences.
Seeing nothing but themselves.
The void too deep.
Calling out cries no one but they themself understands.
Sorrow intertwined with something.
Something.
Something.
Something.
A breaking, beating, all encompassing noise.
A lack of focus.
Lack of—focus.
The hands must do something. Anything. Demanding movement for pleasure.
Derogatory emotion.
The master and servant.
Understanding not.
However. It makes complete sense.
Why listen to the wrong master?
Heed words once, if the same as before, there is no need for change.
Then what is it?
How could it be known?
They do not tell the feeble man.
There is only the screaming punching of wanting to leave the chest.
And there is one.
"He" knows.
Always.
With no shred of doubt. "He" knows everything. Contradicting the lies spoken from "Him".
There is no future left.
Only this…
Feeling born from action.