The freedom of potentiality is a looming dagger of anxiety
Contingent space separates me from the thin thread of becomming
The I am is not what it is soon to become
The flux of temporality surges me toward unforeseen fate
separated by the thin thread of possibility
What content holds a being I am not yet
This state to the next is sustained by the teathers of causality
This anguish of lamenting freedom of possibility hurls me blindly toward an immanent future unforeseen
A future with no conent
A voidness at my face which cannot be pierced
I am not what I will be
I am not what I was
Freedom demands I reinvent myself a new
In the contingent liberty death of existence becomes a real woe
The sword of damocles sways upon its tether
The prior dies and the subsequent is born
And having been is a with past I am
Sustaining its parasitic existence on the lonely island of my psyche
dead to all but itself
Who other than the subject can add value to its existence
The present exigence must die in past in order to be a found
Existence is constantly dying before my eyes
This is the melody of my humanity
The responsibility of life should be left to those
Who can let alone the itch
Of contingency
Stare down the spike of the sword
As it stares down at them
Life is a great fortune and great peril
For who would bare such fardels?
And to give this presence meaning
falls on me
Condemned to be free
My feet kick against the current
Hoping to hit upon land
It reaches out to something outside itself
Falls on nothing
We swim the ocean of nothingness until we drown
There the sword of anguish balances upon its string
Vanity of vanities

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