The best part of life, I'm with you For forever ever even if it ends And the best part of life, I'm with you For forever ever, then we re-begin. SAINt JHN My life is a continuous conflagration of passion in a void of ocean-like waves of sadness as the wind beats down on a periodically ebbing flame that explodes in rage because there is nothing – and I mean nothing – that will put out the eternal flame in my heart kindled by the Goddess’ liquid fire as it pours out from within. No matter the gains, the successes, or the wins, the rain pours, the broken off daemon of my soul ever whispers “you are not good enough.” Of course, that daemon is not the only entity that swirls in my perspectival universe. There is the conjoined and somewhat confusing confluence of guardian angel and Goddess, who are separate yet united, present in each other such that both speak whenever one speaks and yet who is speaking can be clear in the right situation, as well as who is not speaking except in the face of the speaker. They speak of the future, of the felicity of the inner, of the nebulous future where light still coexists with darkness, but with a stronger flame, even if it ebbs still. The future is still a blur, a tohu wa-bohu upon which my spirits and her majesty have refused to illuminate prematurely. I take one step a time, utterly terrified and half in a drunken daze, intoxicated by music and vices for maximum dopamine, with the corresponding withdrawal.
“What Keeps You Going?”
“What Keeps You Going?”
“What Keeps You Going?”
The best part of life, I'm with you For forever ever even if it ends And the best part of life, I'm with you For forever ever, then we re-begin. SAINt JHN My life is a continuous conflagration of passion in a void of ocean-like waves of sadness as the wind beats down on a periodically ebbing flame that explodes in rage because there is nothing – and I mean nothing – that will put out the eternal flame in my heart kindled by the Goddess’ liquid fire as it pours out from within. No matter the gains, the successes, or the wins, the rain pours, the broken off daemon of my soul ever whispers “you are not good enough.” Of course, that daemon is not the only entity that swirls in my perspectival universe. There is the conjoined and somewhat confusing confluence of guardian angel and Goddess, who are separate yet united, present in each other such that both speak whenever one speaks and yet who is speaking can be clear in the right situation, as well as who is not speaking except in the face of the speaker. They speak of the future, of the felicity of the inner, of the nebulous future where light still coexists with darkness, but with a stronger flame, even if it ebbs still. The future is still a blur, a tohu wa-bohu upon which my spirits and her majesty have refused to illuminate prematurely. I take one step a time, utterly terrified and half in a drunken daze, intoxicated by music and vices for maximum dopamine, with the corresponding withdrawal.