by Rion Chynces

The parabola begins its gentle descent.

The shackles of delusion have proven heavy lately. The depthless bliss that

conformity and denial offer is devilishly enticing. The burden of hyperactive thought

leaves me lusting for solace, a "time-out" from life, a temporary refuge from the

relentless onslaught of time.

Within my timeless sanctuary, I would have an opportunity to become revitalized and

rejuvenated. A lacuna like this would furnish me with the strength necessary to

tackle the tripartite journey up the metaphysical mountain.

Unfortunately, my desire for this unattainable asylum leads only to a cruel paradox,

a paradox that offers only a masochistic dichotomy as a solution.

The foreboding attitude I espoused perplexed me, but through careful retrospection,

its source became clear: following a systematic deconstruction of my comfortable

solipsistic worldview, I had somehow become fixated on a dangerous prospect.

Could it be that every one of life's paths leads only to further pain, anguish and

suffering?

This unsettling, anti-idealistic realization was the by-product of undisciplined

introspection. It seemed The quest for enlig4enment lead taken a nasty turn; instead

of finding fulfillment, I found myself wanting to silence my inner voice and gouge out

my minds' eye. I scrambled to render myself incapable of experiencing the maddening

drone of a thousand billion souls steeped in futility.

So now here I sit; shredding everything to scraps with pessimistic shears and

wondering why I've evolved into a bitter, hatefu1 cur. This excursion into obtuse

hopelessness and acute despair has truly exercised my faith and patience. I am

sustained though by the sanguine belief that a wave of divine inspiration will soon

cleanse me from the inside out, thus saving me from myself.

Inspiration will come again.

It always does.

In fact, I think it already has.

The parabola begins its gentle ascent.