Hello friend,
A man was asked: “The depth of my consciousness leads me to suffer, is it a blessing or a curse to feel everything so very deeply?”
He answered: “The only way out is through, you take more of the thing that poisons you until you turn it into a tonic that girdles the world around you.”
The weight of my awareness slams into me every day, a stone I can’t quite shake loose easily.
Does it carve me into something better, or does it just wear me down to nothing?
I feel it all. Too deep, too raw—every crack in the world, every splinter in my joy. It’s a curse that looks like a gift some days, a gift that stings like a curse on others.
Problems don’t ask permission. They claw up through the dirt of your soul, wild and tangled, and when you yank one out, you bleed something you didn’t even know was there.
Smarts are a cruel light.
They don’t save you—they just show you the edges of the pit you’re already in, sharp and unforgiving.
The way it goes is a stumble. A crooked, blind lurch through the muck with no promise of solid ground. They say the only way out is through—so you grit your teeth and swallow the poison.
You take it in—drop by drop—until it’s not poison anymore. It’s yours, twisted into something that props you up, a lifeline you forged from the thing that tried to drown you.
The world doesn’t flinch.
You do. And that’s the tonic: bending under the weight until you turn the wreckage into something that holds.
A heart too big for its cage beats inside me—ribs cracking, straining to keep it in.
Blessing or curse? Maybe it’s both—a cut that bleeds starlight.
Problems don’t fade. Smarts don’t solve them. The way it goes just keeps rolling—relentless, rough, real.
But you make something anyway. Ugly. Beautiful. Alive. That’s the meaning. That’s the way it’s always been.