they say everything else is Vanity.

then delude yourself, deny vanity and its wanton nature, engorging upon itself, a self-mutilated body of pleasure disguised as sin. or am i wrong - sin disguised as sublime pleasure?

my writing is vanity, my thoughts its perpetual partner-in-crime, and there seems to be only one way to free oneself from that yoke, that burden. yet deliverance is nay, nigh, no, to the sobless vain. i pay homage to a self-denial of sorts.

so i stop writing, so these thoughts would cease clouding my unfettered mind, lest i suffer from a cerebral hangover - its manifestations more deadly than that of the intoxicated drunk.

but my thoughts are held captive, disallowed expression, quaking in fear in an anticipation of a release -always deferred, always second-hand.

under surveillance, one completely banishes these thoughts, only to realize that Freud would have been proud of himself - that smart-brained theorist. and so my heartfelt kudos to the Father of the Super-Ego and the Id, immortalized in my impressions, acknowledging that this cannot go on further. self-denial has its repercussions.

and as usual, i speak in concentric circles, in metaphors unknown to the dumb, the deaf, the blind.
self-censorship ceases when i face my own subjective truths, and re-align my vision, climbing that upward hill, sticks and stones may break my bones but words, words ,are all i have - towards the higher Truth, insignificant as i am, unworthy and undeserving as i am.

my first un-vainglorious act of the day. so help me please. mere mortals in flesh and blood have an undisguised need for divine s.o.s., quite often i must say.

argh.eek. i feel crabby.