brittle ..

Once, within the depths of my soul, I believed that the quill clasped in my hand held the essence of a mystical key. A key destined to unlock the shackles of sorrow imprisoning my heart. Oh, how I yearned for this sacred tool, a miraculous gift that would grant me solace and emancipation.

Ink, profound as the ebony night, flowed from its tip, capturing my pleas, my anxieties, my anguished disarray. It bore witness to the battles I waged, futile and senseless, against the very essence of Truth, Wonder, and the Divine.

Yet, alas, I never traversed beyond that initial page, never transcended the genesis of it all. Perhaps, for I myself failed to comprehend the enigmatic genesis, the unfurling mysteries that danced upon those pages. Why did it come into being, and when will it find its ultimate culmination? These immutable truths, rigid and unyielding, have left me contorted and transformed.