It is a struggle to find anything that gives progress, because I do not have the same chemicals pushing me forward (or backward, or inward). It's hard to accept a lack of power on your own part, and even harder to resist what you think gives you that power, in spite of your own biology and psychology.
You are a shell along the beach, the shattered home of an ignorant beast; I am the wave that hammers down into sand. To barrel down, all on your own, with nothing but the confusion of foam, They watch the head with baited sight: The throes of a candle in oil-burning torchlight.
The earth knows the taste of falling flesh, and we are one. Come to ritual for sanctum's sake: Habitual; commonplace. I am death in the horse of Man, I am death in the eyes of war, I am death once the eyes are screwed into spirals of conjecture from the graves of funeral.
Indignation always comes in the form of splintered glass, with its origin at our centers. No one ever tries to control that, though, and they feed themselves with self-righteousness and condescension. It is disgusting if you put it into context with the capacity of the brain.
But that is everyone's identity: The ego, driven inward.
If I could capture one thing and place it into an expression of some abstract form, I would envelop the cold autumn morning, the rusted brown and a shortness of breath. These things are together inside of me.
Frustration grips me because I have waned in my ability to control my own mind. Even when I have been at my most insane, I could always control my baser emotions. That is getting harder to do. Maybe it's because I'm never sober for more than a few days at a time. Maybe it's because I'm starting to realize just how fucked I am. Maybe it's because I know that I will never have any semblance of normality or happiness in the more concrete sense. My brain is lashing out at me.