Page 81 (1/2)

“I see now that the purpose of self-progress is not to pursue perfection, but to le our deepest fears and doubts, and arrive in that tender, blissful place where we are free to be our purest, boundless selves”

— Beau Taplin, The Glade of Self

There were no words for this pain

Of course,consonants and vowels together, to form a combination of syllables that could enco

Heartbroken seemed to be the one that came closest to the truth, but it still failed to do the job

I understood where that word caht on your chest, the splitting of your rib cage, the way your heart see it fro the way it once did before

It was that gut-wrenching ache in the very pit of who you are, the one that screaainst the walls of your stoh, it can somehow capture and hold onto what never could truly be

It was desperation and despair in equal measure

It was a gaping hole never to be filled again

It was an untouchable feeling of having the source of all the joy in your life ripped away suddenly and violently, and the horrific realization that you’d never have it again

There were no words for this pain

There were no words for this torture

There were no words for this strange purgatory where I felt dead inside and somehow more alive than ever

There were no words

So, I wiped my face I took a deep breath

And I attempted to paint it