It’s time to fall out. We tell ourselves that when the most routing, repugnant stratums of frustration raze through our deepest depths, spanking our soul. Booted to bitterness, it’s as if we become discarded whores to our surroundings unable to satisfy any longer. We become so cold with vexation that after tiers of tears have fountained towards the limitless blue, we look down and see just a pool of our own wounds. We’re ripped off our tolerance and shredded down to a mulch of exasperation so much so, that we become dumb and numb. We then tell ourselves, it’s time to fall out.
The penicillin to our patience attacks our own body and we become a corpse of calamity seeking vendetta with the tiniest element that brought us here in the first place. The goodness we thought we had done comes back to rape us, as a thank you, and leaves with the last laugh after pulling up its zippers.
This isn’t the pout and purr drama. It’s an overlooked crater out of which, as it had to, our magma of mania bangs out. We had done our decent and played fair. But still our virtues boomerang back to us inside a bomb of unwarranted dues. Our passive, subconscious mind engines into production and reminds us of all our righteousness and the unfair reimbursement we receive from it. And all we know is that we are right. We just never asserted so.
But inside the mayhem in our minds, inside the hurt heart, we find solace and rationality and reason. Our judgment was never impaired, even amidst the tar and turmoil of infuriation. As ironic and unfeasible as it sounds, we find our comfort.
And the culprit.