Thus spoke Zarathustra, by Neitzche

“Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.”

If there was a virtue handed to each of us at birth, mine would be love. It both exhilarates and haunts me. It pumps my blood and steals my breath. There is no surviving under those circumstances. When you drown, even if its in your lovers arms, your heart will eventually be forced to stop.

I must find my balance because while my whole insides beg for relief, my mind craves the language that comes with loving someone so much it hurts. My thoughts love to delve deep into the ocean of longing and lust, pain and suffering. To push each limit until the only drops left are dried to my face.

I have been pushing lately. Against the idea of falling off the ledge. Because once you fall, it’s that much harder to climb back up. I’ve done it before. I could do it again. That’s my minds trick. It wants me to go. It wants the bumps and the bruises, the scrapes and the torture so that the words will flow more freely.

 

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