“My anima sings, softly and
slowly yet rages voraciously and with contempt for her own existence.
Underneath, my anima sings with passion and hate not for those around her or
those who despise her… but for herself. My anima cries, deeply and loudly yearning
for someone to help, viciously grabbing into open air in hope of finding that
one hand. A hand that she would trust all that’s left of her life in for the preceding
struggle. My anima whispers, why… why does it hurt so much that only perishing
is of worth. She whispers… to save her. My anima would not live if she could
choose the fate of her own.”
Peer through the glass as the
sands flow hours through a rupture spilling on such floors that the very reason
of this self-infliction threads on.
