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From an imprisoned mind

Dear person,
how gratuitous it ought to be—to be a man of sound mind.
A sound mind capable of being a dynamic catalyst
of paradox within your very core;
free to suffer,
yet free to be at serene.

Dear person,
how freeing it must be to be the Calliope to your own logos.
How exhilarating and fruitful it must have been
to foresee that better days are to arrive soon.

Dear person,
you whisper to yourself, unconsciously,
to be better than who you were yesterday.
Your body hears your whisper—
and rejuvenates with function and authenticity.

Dear person,
how favoured are you?
because when the mind tells the self to stay suffocated,
imprisoned in its own realm of misery and self-inflicted suffering,
why is it deemed narcissism?

Even my dreams do not bring me tranquility or beauty.
Oh Morpheus,
dream me better in your creations.
Let me dream better,
even behind these closed eyes.

Dear person, again, and lastly
how lucky could you be
to see and understand your pain?

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