Inexorable sense of wilful incompliance within the ego

It is the feeling of raging hell, and while the celestial lies not in the realm of my beliefs, its scent is unmistakable. How do I live through my ordeal? Hide and diminish the ego of my instincts, expanding the Reason inside me till it presses hard against the inside of my skin or gulping the smell as it runs through the tips of my body, replacing the blood which gave and gives me life? An answer may be as satisfying as the hungry filling their stomachs with water, but the lack of one accompanied by indecisiveness brings upon possibilities which are forever possible - a sense of hope that there would be a per se. Neither the amount nor the value of this sense of hope can be measured, which makes ease an unstable equlibrium but nonetheless lacking in result or end.

In case of stirring irregularities, revert to uncertainty, which with the long decaying process of time, produces rest with occasional murmurs.

Being busy

Gradually I begin to enjoy being busy - the effects of cumulative effort fascinating me. The things I am going to do for the rest of my life is seeping into my blood and starting to run through my vessels. Work is becoming rest and rest becoming an indifferent luxury.