@publicangelscity

The wings of mine are rotten.
They are not merely broken—no, that would be mercy. They decay, piece by piece, like the frail flesh of a forgotten child, buried in the arms of her grieving mother. Do you see it? The mother clutches her child, not with love, but with horror—holding what cannot be held, holding what is already lost.

Such are my wings. They were once meant for the skies, to rise above the filth and the endless suffering below. And yet, what did I do with them? Did I soar? No. I crawled, dragging these wretched feathers through the dirt, until they rotted beneath the weight of my own failures. They reek now, of cowardice and lost purpose, and I, like that grieving mother, can only cradle their useless remains, helpless to let them go.

But tell me—what choice did I have? Was I not born with this sickness in my soul, this rot that crept into my being from the moment I dared to dream of flight? To be born with wings is a curse, my friend. To rise is to fall. To hope is to despair. And yet, I cannot help but mourn the loss of what was never truly mine.

Still, there is something in this decay, something that gnaws at me even as it comforts. Is it not fitting that my wings rot as I do? That they should die with me, as a child dies with her mother, bound by a love too heavy to bear? Perhaps this is justice. Perhaps this is grace.

Or perhaps it is nothing—nothing but the inevitable end of all things that dare to rise.

Yours,
A soul burdened by the earth.

@publicangelscity

“existence is just God's body decaying”

@publicangelscity

@publicangelscity

"The mind flees its own subjectivity in order to evacuate its pain"

Their ascent, a grotesque farce! Those I deemed lesser, those whose failings I so smugly observed, now stand above me, their success a silent, damning verdict. I, the self-proclaimed judge, am left wallowing in the dust, a monument to my own wretched inadequacy. The irony claws at my soul, a bitter poison, each of their triumphs a mirror reflecting my own pathetic failings. This bitter knowledge, this gnawing self-loathing...
it is a torment worse than any physical pain.

A leaden weight, a blanket deep,
Laziness holds me, in its keep.
The sunbeams stream, a wasted call,
No strength to rise, no will at all.
This heavy fog, this cruel embrace,
Steals time and joy, leaves not a trace.
Another day, just slips away,
In apathy's unending sway.