When pain is too much it morphs into something darker, something uglier, and something less controllable.

Fury. Rage. Anger.

Helplessness. Something of the sort.

How many fates should I accept? How many sins should I repent?

What did I do, to deserve this? Does this feeling even have a name?

(I loved. I rebelled. I do not regret.)

xxxxx

Even the most fiery of pheniox must tire of burning into ashes and being reborn into the same tragedies and failures. Even it must burn out from the rain, it cannot control the sky.

xxxxx

I am on the verge of giving up everything I ever put my soul into. The seeds I sowed came out infested with maggots, decay and dissapointment.

xxxxx

And even you my love, do not know what to say to me anymore. I wish you did.