Here me speak

Do you ever get the feeling your the only one who's got any problem?
Like all is fine, except for me, the uninitiated?
That everyone knows the obvious, the essential, the being, but except for I?
Yes sir. That is my feeling.

I harbor the karmic debt. I see the the unstarted now, and the garbage that flogs the corridors of my perceptions, in a shadowy impulse of dark promptings. The mechanic that tightens the screws of my inhibitions. My liver that pumps with strain as poisionous murk is squeezed strainedly.

I see the beauty, and a latching parasite. It surrounds the flower of promise.
It bites me when I shift perceptions, creating a link of passage, passage through the broken now.

The mind enquires & sorts, but can't make sense of any of it in any ultimate sense.
Instead there is a big mass of tools, functions, meanings of impressions, pushed into a chest, and another and another. Life is somewhat like the quilt made out of various sorts of fabrics taken from the environment at random, with whatever is at disposal. The only thing the quilt serves to do is keep me warm, to give me something soft and comforting, to wrap around me... my whole world is the small lukewarm space underneath the quilt. There is not lonliness, for I cannot remember contact really... there is just pain, pain without any meaning or reference to cause. I've been in this trench since time destroyed my garden. The hole the explosion left me in is where I continue to scrunch. I don't even have an imagination. Instead I stare uncontrollably & unconsciously at this little screen type thingie which passively displays things to me against my will.
Whats outside? Beauty I'm unworthy to see. Light that intensifies and makes conscious my self-hatred...hatred that is almost like love, equally devote to my destruction as love is to growth.
I'm sorry I ever loved. I had no right apparently.