I don't want therapy

My soul is whole, but cracked. A little. Not too much. If it weren’t to be this way, perhaps I wouldn’t even be here at all. I’m starting to see it all—the difference between my identity and my soul. They have distinct purposes, and many times, it clashes. This vessel of a body has witnessed it all—every single one. Triggers, patterns, images, visions, heaviness in the heart. It feels unbearable, but who, again, made the system? If there were no cracks and everything were to be as perfect as it can be, nothing would emerge into existence.

My soul desires to stay and feel, even through all the worse ones. And as long as my brain had anticipated the fall and the slap in the face, I knew it wouldn’t strike like a bitch, just a beach.

My identity is hungry for glimmers, how microscopic or other-worldly they are. It almost has withdrawal effects, making everything else inside burns and yelps. It never works that way, where’s the fun in that? A little heartbreak is yearned and romanticized. I mean, what is life without a little melancholy?

Now, this vessel is looking left and right.

Left and right.

Left and right.

Sometimes, up and down.

Up and down.

Just deciding what to feel and what to do next. Who to follow and who to not follow. Who deserves to lead it into known and unknown places. It’s exciting… but it is always full of sweats and harsh breaths.

People notice, but not really. They assume and see something else in their mind. Well, we all have our own worlds in our head, what can we do? We are all so rich of imaginations and feelings, we all have biases, we all are protective of something needn’t no protection, we all are fanatics of our own world. This drives us forward to meaning, though we don’t really need one to stay alive. We do need one, though, to live. But, dear lord, it really is messy.

The meaning and purpose to the I, is perhaps, incorporating the soul, the identity, and the vessel. I am all three, merged into one. The system works this way. The void is so vast, yet so full and crowded. I’m glad only one shouts, because I would surely go insane if the other follows. Anyone would go insane, trying to break itself apart from each other.

Do I need therapy?

Just a lover, I hope.

…well, not really. It’s a tricky thing, but I don’t crave romance. I crave to be looked at in the eye, while I burn alive inside my own hell, or within a random storm in a wide field, then my remnants to be collected and dissected in an organized science lab. He would not crack a smile, nor a tear. But he would know me like no others. And I would allow it. Only then, I would like a lover.

Yeah, I definitely need therapy.