Something has happened.

In Prose.

I believe something has happened within my person. Perhaps it’s a first. Perhaps it’s one of those reoccurring happenings that my goldfish’d thought processor seems to have deemed worthy of discard due to a lack of dopamine induced thrill factors—— who’s to say.

But something has happened with in my person. A certified truth. And it seems that I am finally at ease with the idea of myself. Both internally and externally. With complete totality.

Its truly an accomplishment… not just for myself, but for anyone, really. And it’s something one is unable to see others are lacking within their being until they’ve truly recognized within themselves.

This is a note worthy event worth documenting. It’s a milestone. A benchmark. A revelation. But most importantly, being at ease with the idea of oneself is nothing short of a luxury— though a luxury with a paradoxical twist. For it’s the only luxury with a seemingly unexplainable satisfaction. (But being the wordsmith that I am; I shall eagerly take a stab at it)

I think/perhaps/maybe/I believe to be so, that these satisfactions found some place deep within the complete ease with the idea of oneself are best described as profound guttural existentialisms. Feeling so utterly visceral that one is left becoming more of a witness to the human species, and no longer intrinsically a part of the human species. But not in any sort of psychopathic “you people are nothing more than swine in need of slaughtering” type of way. It’s more like a “How the hell did I get here and when can I leave?” Kind of thing. Or perhaps is even more so a “Is there any way I can help provide you people with a more viable way to figure out this thing you call the human condition? Because, damn.” Kind of way.

Something I should notate: I am able to recall moments throughout my time spent here on Earth when I was at complete ease with my external self. And I can recall moments throughout this here existence when I have felt somewhat at ease with my internal self. But never have these two feelings coincided. Never simultaneously. Never with certainty. Free’d of fear. Free’d of expectation. Free’d of external validation. And on and on…

But, now. Now that the mystical shift has taken precedence over the self. Now that the unexplainable has been explained. Now I can safely say to myself, “Self—“ I says with proud ownership,”—you are now free’d from the all of the everything.” And then I says to myself, “Self. Now that you’re a free man you’ve my permission to exist without restraint. Unabashed. Unconcerned. Undeclared. Unrestricted, And unaffected.”

so self just does what it does best. It laughs at taboo jokes even when the everything says “don’t you dare laugh, that ain’t funny.” And it cries in sorrow, despite the everything’s desire to make us all wanna boot strap that shit. And it sings loud songs, and speaks bold truths, and it tames wild beasts and nurtures in romance. And it paints portraits and wears garments of high fashion (not because it needs the validation, but because it enjoys garments of high fashion, goddammit.) and it writes thoughts. It reads poems. And it runs and rests and raves and rants and reaches and risks and sometimes it may even do a bit of rampaging.

And this brings about a superior ease in being.

All because self found itself.

“This be the self—“

Says it into the endless void,

“—at ease am I, so heed my call.”