There is so much to be fixed. While I am constantly repairing, or rather, attempting to repair, that which I perceive to be broken, the pieces do not seem to bind. Sometimes they do, but their fragile nature renders them highly susceptible to repeated breakage, very often caused by the unstable kaleidoscope of emotions. Within that cylindrical container that holds its own tiny world of colourful possibilities, there is, I reckon, a constant struggle in attempting to keep the colours in check. It is not that I do not try, but sometimes trying can be so easily over-ridden by the want to let the colours take their own swing and to draw the image that would be viewed - even if the colours stem from such triviality and immaturely nonsensical thoughts. Indulgence may bring sweet pleasure but in certain circumstances, indulgence brings one back to where they started from - a jumble of broken pieces, mended again and again. It is a monotonous cycle of reparation and breakage, catalysed by the weakness of my feeble mind.
But a feeble mind and a foolishly delicate heart cannot be the master of my self. To dwell within the nooks and crannies of self-indulgence is pathetic.
To the Higher One above,
A constant heart, that which is sought,
For tire have I, in indulgence, been caught.
Your guidance and light, I pray is brought,
Feebleness be taken, I ask, from the good lot.
Repairing.
