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Broken Lips Be Sincere

It saddens me to think that, in a way, I anticipated the inevitable disappointment of the first half of whatever silly excuse it is that I call soul searching. The process has been, for lack of worse words, shallow and dismaying. I take what heartbreaks are there to endure, and allow myself to be battered and abused physically and spiritually without any indication of retaliation, unless it involves something totally out of proportion. But even then I most likely will not have the audacity to act on it. Everything was well within some reasonable failure of mine, sadly. I embraced the blame all to myself, fair or not, and did not ask for anything in return. The joys and sorrows are but mine to revel, now it's high time to sit back and worry more how to achieve the satisfaction of rest. Whatever it is that I need to resolve must have to wait, the first half of my high school comeback has just concluded, and quite frankly, it is all sorts of shit.

Despite the constructive criticisms, I cannot help but think more of the unconventional responses that I received. What a way to end, is it not? That gooey slime and more that ejaculated out of this little whore's mouth. That sparkling, liquid sweat that smelt of dead mice. That awful, shared spit from one mouth to the other, as I woke up unwittingly convinced of the night's alleged merriment. There was more to learn to what I see than what I actually did. This was a cherished moment of my first death, and even so the second half has nothing compared to the actual way of my learning, I will keep pushing on forward, not for any other reasons, not for my colleagues, not for my mentors, not even for myself, but for that ultimate vindication that awaits from some unknown hunch. An invisible wall that bounces the bullets right back. Only then can my broken lips be sincere, and that is all that matters for now.

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