our whole lives have been spent awaiting the earthquake, shake the chains o so that we can build a brand new conciousness but the aftershock leaves us convulsing, and writhing, barely hanging on all of the obligations a futile slap in the face of freedom all of the hearts that once beat for us beat no more and all of our wounds that once bled bleed no more and all of the sickness, and nausea, the anguish and pain collateral damage, from the struggle with self-hate all of the paths we’ve trodden, overgrown by the attempts to satiate the discontentment thats permeates our skin like a riverbed, in a thaw overwhelmed by water, it rears its ugly head forcing us to seek out shelter in theogical security blankets that we pull up to our eyes so that we can’t see the sea that lies ahead or the ferryman who points us in the right direction, but leaves us to discover the path that will be best for us alone