Your disillusionment does not bring your promised liberation only further pain. Your search for succor, for water at dry wells, following specious creatures down pathways to revelation is naïve.
Draw up all the beauty, the gentleness, awe, kindness, and tender love into an elixir, a panacea, a bulwark. Yet the world, spinning mercilessly, its monumental forces quickly, blindly, overpowers your haven.
The world is a war; a tsunami; a Munchausen by Proxy mother who scrubs her child with bleach.
Look heart, at your companions as they make it through the days largely unaffected and calm. Shout, cry, or surrender – you are gossamer: torn, emotionally raw, and afraid. Stoic soldiers will put you to shame.
What can be left of you in the end, when every breath is gone, every word spoken, every feeling spent, every silken thread severed?