Thought Process: Primordial Inkling

I'm still holding on to dreams that never existed, to the pain of swimming at the nadir and holding on to the railings. This whirlpool of emotions grips my being, throws me into tantrum and compels me to tears. The salty sea beneath me tells me I'm still alive, yet the oyster of tomorrow still stays shut.

When the clouds form over the darkness, a thunderclap is heard in the distant, a fiery signet is inscribed on the mould and the earthworms die of heat. The ground opens up for a moment to lament while the core stays happy because the surface now knows how it feels. There is darkness in the core and it burns deep, it breaches the middle and keeps our hearts in turmoil, always ready to pounce and ready to hurt, it's strewn with pain and a doze of blinding passion.

In the end, I tried so hard and though it only sparsely mattered, I will fall and lose it all in this cycle of life, paving the way for posterity. They will seat in high places and drink expensive wine I could never afford, drive the cars I could never buy and have the things I only dreamed of. Yet, in all this, they will inherit the darkness that is in the core, the heat and blackness from being stuck in the rut, my inklings to the perverted, my love for the unruly and my impatience and worrisome nature. I am so sorry.